


Flying Too Close to the Ground

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Ambivalent Sex, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 104,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Post TFP. After the phone call Molly’s shocked, angry and does the unthinkable — she dumps Sherlock. Mixed up and confused, he’s now forced into the position of unrequited lover and tries to improve his character to address her concerns as he thrashes around in self-pity, despair, and bothersome romantic inclinations.Molly’s behavior turns inscrutable as she wrestles with her feelings about Sherlock’s unsuitability as a romantic partner and her attraction to another man. On top of it all, a secret from Sherlock’s past threatens to derail his attempts to regain her trust and win her back. In short, things are looking uncertain and our lovers are a mess.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/OFC
Comments: 182
Kudos: 60





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlolly. Canon compliant (Mary’s dead, it wasn’t all a dream), but with OCs. Domestic Sherlock, tons of fluff, romance, drama, humor, slow burn, pining, angst, push me/pull you, betrayal, infidelity, injury, brain is not helpful, addiction, secrets, strong language, hallucinations, and heartbreak. Smut (some real, some imagined). The explicit rating is there for a reason.
> 
> This is a slow, contemplative story that explores sadness, loneliness, and grief as well as the evolution of goodness and the limits of friendship. I hope I’ve managed to brighten it a bit with touches of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Decided to start putting this out as a WiP. Please bear with me as I finish it up! 
> 
> *This is the slowest written story to ever creep out of my mush brain (pandemic term, lol). I’ve been struggling with writer’s block all through this damn thing, which has been more than a year in the making. But I persevered, and I hope you enjoy the results! Thanks for reading, and especially for commenting. I appreciate the feedback.
> 
> *Been listening to a lot of country music recently — lovely ballads by Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash, and Hank Williams. Their beautiful, aching lyrics helped to guide this story. There will be a list of songs at the end. 
> 
> *I tried to work in small references to many other BC roles, see how many you can spot.
> 
> *Grammar note: when a character is speaking for more than one paragraph at a time, the close quotes on the last line are dropped and a new open quote appears at the beginning of the next paragraph. This happens quite a bit in this story (lots of exposition), and it may appear to be a mistake but it isn’t.
> 
> *If you notice any misspellings, incorrect or missing punctuation, plot holes, or Britishisms that are incorrect, please let me know. I do edit after posting so it can be as perfect as possible. Thanks!

  
*****

**Flying Too Close to the Ground**

_If you had not have fallen  
Then I would not have found you  
Angel flying too close to the ground  
And I patched up your broken wing  
And hung around a while  
Tryin' to keep your spirits up  
And your fever down  
I knew someday that you would fly away  
For love's the greatest healer to be found  
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember  
Angel flying too close to the ground  
Fly on, fly on past the speed of sound  
I'd rather see you up than see you down  
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember  
My angel flying too close to the ground  
Leave me if you need to, I will still remember  
My angel flying too close to the ground _

  
  
**Falling**

_I tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my every dream  
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme  
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart  
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold, cold heart?_

Sherlock hesitated outside the door to Molly’s flat. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since that phone call last week. The one his sister had forced upon them both. He hadn’t been sure how to go about explaining the whole mess to her, so he’d avoided the issue altogether, procrastinating for six long days. He could wait no longer; his reticence had grown to ridiculous proportions and her silence, her very absence, was unbearable.

He hated the way it had happened, hated having to be cruel to her, to have such an intimate experience manifest in front of so many people in such a pressured environment. It was not the manner he would have chosen to declare his love for her. And now he didn’t know if she would welcome him with open arms or be angry and never want to talk to him again. Whilst he hoped it would be the former option, his uncertainty had fueled an uncharacteristic avoidance.

He’d meant what he’d said on the phone to her — he loved her, he knew it now, but this revelation threw him into entirely new territory. He wasn’t sure how it would affect his life and his work going forward and so he’d stalled, not knowing how to absorb this unexpected feeling into his body and mind. He felt ill at ease, unsettled, fumbling, and yes, terrified. He wasn’t about to admit that last one to anybody but he knew it was in there, he could feel it creeping around in his guts.

This really wasn’t his area, he acknowledged, pacing the hallway outside her door; everyone knew he wasn’t very good with people. Despite his brilliance, his flashy, incandescent deductions, and his extraordinary ability to reconstruct complex human behaviors out of simple clues, actually engaging on an emotional level with other humans threw him off balance. Sometimes they were incomprehensible to him, their need for and reliance on sentiment and silly superstitions, not to mention the appalling lack of logic. 

Additionally, he detested the intimacy of tender conversations; they felt like an emotional flaying. All glib, deflective, safe sarcasm thrown away in exchange for deep, meaningful honesty. The very idea made him squirm. No wonder Mycroft avoided them like the plague.

At the same time, as he grew older, a tiny craving, an actual need for human connection started sneaking into a small, aching void he’d found in his chest. Maybe it had started with John and Mary, he mused. Observing the affection, intimacy, and support they held for each other had apparently affected him more than he realized. At first he tried to brush aside the strange craving as mere envy but it had persisted, lodging permanently in a spot just below his heart, taking root there and exerting an odd, unfamiliar pressure on him. Sometimes he felt it was pulling or maybe pushing him faster than he was willing to go.

_Take it easy. You’re all right. You’ve no patience,_ his brain said. 

“True,” he muttered. “People are slow, stupid, and irritating.”

 _I wasn’t giving you an affirmation,_ his brain chuckled.

He shrugged, drew a deep, centering breath and knocked on her door. “Shut up,” he told his brain. “Molly’s different than the rest of them.”

She opened it a few moments later, her dressing gown wrapped around her and held closely against her throat. Her hair was in curlers. “Sherlock!” she said, taken aback, seeming a little confused. “Oh. I was expecting someone else.” She stepped aside and ushered him in.

“Going out?” he drawled as he swept into her flat.

“Yes.” She appeared a little embarrassed at being caught in a state of undress.

“Clubbing with the girls?” A slight sneer of bored disdain curled his lip. He removed his coat, sat down on the sofa, and gave her an awkward smile. Toby jumped up next to him and crawled into his lap, purring and hoping for ear scritches. He absentmindedly petted the cat.

“Er, not exactly,” she answered. “I—“

“I, uh, wanted to talk to you,” he interrupted, anxious to get this conversation started.

“Oh. Sure,” she said. “But I’m just going to continue to get ready first, okay? I’m almost done. It’ll only take a few minutes. Do you mind waiting?”

“No problem,” he acquiesced, pulling out his phone and opening his inbox. 

“Right,” she said, giving him a strange, unfathomable look before heading down the hall to her bedroom. As he perused his inbox he could hear her irritatingly humming off-key to herself as she got ready and wisely stifled an urge to tell her to shut up. Instead, he passed the time fiddling with his phone, solving a case in the time it took her to finish. He texted Lestrade. 

__

_Child’s play. It was poison. The wedding ring has a secret compartment. Stop boring me and think! —SH_

Ten minutes later she was back. He did a double take as she came into view; she looked stunning. A trim, cobalt blue cocktail dress of shimmering silk charmeuse adorned her body and her hair was a mass of graceful curls carefully pinned on top of her head. A few loose tendrils fell enticingly down, winding along her neck. She was wearing lacy black stockings, three inch heels, and eyeshadow. 

“You…look nice,” he offered, beginning to sense something wasn’t quite right. She usually didn’t dress up this much to go out with the girls from Bart’s. Special evening, then. 

_Hen party. One of her friends has probably gotten engaged,_ his brain stated. 

“Thanks,” she replied easily, with a small smile. “How is Baker Street?” she continued as she settled onto one end of the sofa. She smoothed her dress down and crossed her arms, her shoulders as sharp as silver wings.

“Oh! Yes, that. The damage wasn’t as bad as I first thought,” he said. He paused for a moment, thinking, before continuing. “Hang on. How did you hear about that?”

“Greg told me,” she replied. “He stopped by the lab a few days ago. I’m relieved to hear everyone is okay. So you’re making headway?”

“Well, it still needs a bit of repair, painting and so on, but it’s not too bad,” he added, understating the impact of his sister’s bomb. It wouldn’t do to upset her tonight, if he told her how close they’d come to dying. “It’s habitable.”

“What happened to your hands?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow. They were covered with a number of scrapes and gashes, now scabbed over. “That looks painful.”

“Oh,” he said, turning them over and running a finger along one of the larger wounds. “Just a bit of…damage from a recent…fight. It’s nothing. They’re fine.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. Now, what did you want, Sherlock?” she asked, crisply.

“I, um, well, it’s a bit difficult to explain,” he began, swallowing hard, trying to stay focused. Her loveliness was distracting. He could smell her perfume wafting through the air, a spicy, heavenly mixture of frankincense underlaid with a hint of sweet orange. “But,” he continued, “I wanted to see you because I felt I owed you some kind of…well, something.” 

She sat there, her face an impenetrable mask. “What kind of something?” 

He felt a nervousness burning in the pit of his stomach. The flaying had begun. “About last week…um, some type of explanation, or maybe even an apology, I guess,” he said, laughing uneasily. “That didn’t happen the way I wanted it to, but I didn’t have any other options. I know I said it was for a case, and in one iteration that’s true, but there were other factors affecting me that played into what happened. I’ve been having a rather extraordinary time of it recently, and that phone call, it was a bit jarring, wasn’t it? I know you must have been shocked and I—“

“Yes, that was something else,” she acknowledged, nodding her head thoughtfully. “Last thing I expected.”

“Yes, very unexpected,” he rushed on. “Anyway, I know I should have called you or come over sooner, but there were a lot of details I had to work out and I just didn’t have the time to—“

“I, I, I,” she broke in, echoing him. “Me, me, me.”

“What?” He knew he was doing a lousy, shambling job of it, but he wasn’t expecting this exact reaction. “I’m just trying to explain,” he continued. “You see, I—“

Molly sighed and interrupted him. “It’s all about you, isn’t it, Sherlock? Everything’s always about you.” She pursed her lips, raised an eyebrow, and met his eye with a measured expression he’d never seen before.

_Be careful, you idiot,_ his brain interjected. _She’s probably angry._

“Well, yes,” he agreed, reluctantly, not liking how this conversation was progressing. “I guess it is. Uh, isn’t it that way for everyone?” he managed to respond with an awkward smile, trying to cut off what he feared was only the beginning of an avalanche of unhelpful comments from his brain. He could feel how unsettled he was, and he didn’t understand, like, or appreciate it. This was definitely not his area.

“No,” she answered firmly. “It’s not that way for everyone. Some folks take an interest in other people’s well-being. Some folks help each other. Some folks risk intimacy.”

He didn’t know what was going on. She was certainly acting…differently tonight. She didn’t seem angry but her words were direct, crisp and blunt. The words of a woman who felt abandoned, trivialized, ignored. But her calm and even tone confused him. He’d expected a different reaction, for her to cry, or fall into his arms, or even slap him, he realized. Not whatever this was. She seemed like a wall of ice, blank and cold. Uncertain, he blundered on. “I…I am interested,” he stammered. “I was concerned about you so I came over…”

“A week late,” she said, shrugging lightly and turning her head away to check the clock on the demilune table by the door, exposing her long, lovely neck to his gaze. 

He thought he felt the brush of hard, invisible wings against his cheek, and he suddenly became hyper-aware of how beautiful, how stunning she was. The realization pierced him, ecstatically painful and instantly at odds with his stomach which started slowly, sourly churning as he lost control of the conversation. “I wasn’t sure how to go about this…” he faltered, waving his hand between them. “You see, something entirely unexpected happened to me—“

“You, you, you. Again. Always you.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen, Sherlock, if you’re here to tell me you have a crazy sister who made you ring me, don’t bother. I already know.”

“What? How?” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Greg told me,” she said, flatly. “Five days ago.” She leaned back, stretching her arm along the back of the sofa, expectantly waiting on his response.

“Greg told you?” He could feel his rising confusion draining his mind of reason, and the burning sensation in his stomach was morphing into a bubbling pool of magma. This wasn’t happening the way he’d anticipated.

“Yes,” she replied, still using that maddeningly unreadable tone. “He was surprised you hadn’t told me. And after I heard what he said, I was surprised you hadn’t told me, either. What’s up with that, Sherlock?”

“S…Sorry, what’s going on here?” he asked, now completely at sea.

“You tell me,” she said in a horribly calm voice. “No, never mind. I’ll tell you. Better yet, I have a question for you. What have you ever done for me, besides _allowing_ me to spend time in your exalted presence?” Her voice rang with a dry, wintry sarcasm.

“What?” He kept saying that but he couldn’t help it, it was the only word ringing in his head right now. All other words had vanished and he was falling, foundering like a ship in a tempest. He licked his lips and tried to swallow; his mouth had suddenly gone as dry and chalky as Dover.

_You’re fucking this up,_ his brain warned. 

“Shut up!” he hissed.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, sharply, giving him a frosty glare.

“No, no, no, not you,” he responded quickly, internally wincing. “That was, um, for me. Never mind. Please continue.”

“Fine,” she sighed, with a confused little shake of her head. “What have you ever done for me?” she repeated. “No, wait, let’s start with me, first, shall we? Just for a change.” She laughed at her own little joke. “Let me tell you what I’ve done for you — I’ve given you access to the lab at all hours of the day and night, brought you body parts, did your lab work, let you boss me around, gave you a place to crash whenever you wanted, my own bedroom, by the way, whilst I slept on this sofa, brought you coffee like some personal assistant, fed you, helped you fake your own death by breaking the law and risking my career, and trotted admiringly around after you on cases like a good little sidekick.” 

He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off with an even smile. “Wait! I’m not finished, Sherlock! I’ve sat with you through your detoxes, cleaned up your flat, got rid of your syringes, did your laundry, sewed up your wounds from your stupid fights, admonished you, loved you, and watched you lie, manipulate, and use me. I’ve done everything you ever asked of me and stood by you for seven long years. So, again. What have you done for me in return?”

“What? Well, I…I saved your life,” he said quietly, his mind spinning. The floor seemed to shift under his feet.

“No, you didn’t!” she laughed. “Greg said I was in no danger from your sister. Try again. Tell me one thing you’ve done for me.”

_This is bad,_ his brain pronounced. 

Speechless, all he could do was stare at her.

“I thought so,” she continued, acknowledging his silence with a sad, grim, tilt of her head. “Well, I’ve made a turning off this one way street. I’m done.”

_You’re losing her, _his brain said.__

____

__

____

“I reckoned you might be angry,” he stated with a nod.

____

__

____

“I’m not angry,” she replied, coolly. “Even though I’m pretty sure I have every right to be. You treated me rather terribly at times. Me and countless others. You might even call it abusive.”

____

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“Wait,” he said, a realization dawning on him that this conversation was much worse than an emotional flaying. It had become an eradication. His heart began to sink. “Who—“

____

__

____

“It’s my turn to talk now, Sherlock,” she continued. “You know, I have no regrets about loving you. My behaviors were my choices, not yours. But you are who you are,” she said with a careless, frightening shrug. “You can’t change, not that I ever wanted you to,” she said, lightly. “You’ll always put yourself first. Good for you, people should put themselves first, don’t you agree?”

____

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____

“I…I guess,” he conceded, not sure at all if he agreed. Something about that seemed awfully cold. Unfeeling, even. He studied her expression. Where was his Molly? Her face was smooth, her body relaxed. She wasn’t perturbed in the least. He frowned, growing more baffled.

____

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“Well,” she went on, “I discovered if I’m to put myself first it means letting go of you. So I am. I realized it last week after you rang. Even whilst we were speaking my heart was turning to dust in my chest. I’ve had a few days to reevaluate and I’ve discovered I’ve poured everything I have out for you. I’m not that eager young thing with a crush on you all those years ago willing to be taken advantage of. I’ve grown and matured and I want a man who’ll be an equal partner to me.”

____

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“I…I can be an equal partner,” he muttered.

____

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“No,” she said, sadly, with a slow shake of her head. “You can’t. It’s simply not in your nature. You’re too selfish, Sherlock. Well, maybe I should say self-absorbed, it sounds kinder. But don’t feel bad, not that you ever do.”

____

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_Yikes,_ his brain said. 

____

__

____

“It’s not your fault,” she continued. “It’s just the way you are. We can still be friends, though. With certain caveats regarding my lab, my flat, and my time.” She made another one of those impossible, ghastly shrugs and smiled evenly at him. There was a horrible silence.

____

__

____

“But, I…I love you,” he finally said, helplessly. 

____

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“Gee, that’s too bad, Sherlock,” she replied, with a noncommittal sigh. “Our timing has always been off, hasn’t it?”

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“I thought you loved me,” he said, trying again.

____

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“I did. I loved you once, but I don’t anymore,” she responded. “Things certainly change, don’t they? And now look where we are.” She spread her hands. “Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

____

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“Jesus!” he breathed in disbelief, having no other response. He clutched his chest, feeling his heart plummeting, slipping out of his body silently and invisibly, exploding onto the carpet at her feet like a blood bomb. 

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There was a knock on the door. Molly jumped up to answer it whilst he sat there, trying to understand what had just happened. He was floundering, sinking into a bewildering fog of confusion and he had a pain in his chest where his heart had recently been.

____

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Greg Lestrade walked into the flat, his back to Sherlock as he came in the door. He put his arm around Molly’s waist, pulled her close, and kissed her slowly and thoroughly. “Mmm,” he said with a smile. “You look beautiful,” he said, dipping his head down to nuzzle her throat.

____

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“Where are we going tonight?” she purred. “What’s the secret place you wouldn’t tell me about?”

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“Pierre’s,” he responded. “Dinner and dancing. And then afterwards I thought we might take a long walk on the embankment. In the moonlight.”

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“Oh, lovely!” she said, slipping one hand up his chest and around his neck. With the other she gently, intimately, wiped a bit of her lipstick off his mouth. “I’ve wanted to go there for ages. I adore dancing.”

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“Dark and cozy,” he replied, grinning suggestively. “It took some doing getting a reservation,” he admitted, kissing her again. “I had to pull rank. But only the best for you, my Molly.”

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Sherlock’s jaw was on the floor and a rising irritation was beginning to roil his stomach. He gathered his wits together and coughed once, loudly, pointedly.

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“Sherlock!” Greg said, turning towards him and smiling. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there. How have you been?” Sherlock didn’t answer, he just crossed his arms and glared. “I’m sorry,” Lestrade continued, glancing between the two of them. “Am I interrupting something?” He kept his arm firmly, possessively, around Molly’s waist. 

____

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“Not a thing,” she replied, smoothly. “We’re done, aren’t we, Sherlock?” She gave him a meaningful look and a sad, understanding nod. “Shall we go, Greg?” She passed him her wrap. He draped it over her shoulders as she reached for her clutch. “Oh, and Sherlock,” she added with a sweet smile, “be sure to lock up when you leave, okay?” They swept out, leaving him alone on the sofa.

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_Charming,_ his brain said. _Brilliant. Well done._

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“What the actual fuck!” Sherlock shouted into the empty room, a scowl stitching his brows together. He stared blankly at the table in front of him for a few minutes, feeling like he’d broken into a thousand pieces. Then, with a low grunt, he grabbed his coat and left, intending to follow them to Pierre’s. He purposefully left her door unlocked as he slammed out but before reaching the pavement he stopped to reconsider, went back and angrily locked it, hating himself for this small weakness.

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_Ha! You can’t even be spiteful,_ his brain chuckled. 

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“I know!” he growled, exasperated, as he flagged down a taxi.

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He slipped into the supper club through the kitchen and passed a £50 note to the Maitre d’ to smooth his way when she approached him with an irritated look on her face. Coming in through the kitchen was always considered rude and entitled but he shrugged it off as he made his way to the bar. The restaurant was crowded, which he appreciated; it was easier for him to remain invisible that way. The dim lighting helped as well.

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Finding a hidden spot at the end of the long, curved bar, he stationed himself behind a large potted palm, ordered a double whiskey, and started spying on them. They were sitting side by side in a dark booth near the back, studying the menu. 

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_Are you sure you want to do this?_ his brain asked. 

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“Yes,” he hissed. “Shut up!”

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_You’re just torturing yourself. Waste of time._

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He ignored this internal comment and continued to observe them, taking several large sips of his drink to calm his shattered nerves. They had their heads together and were discussing what looked good. Eventually a waiter took their order. After he left Greg took Molly’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. She shyly looked down before raising her gaze to him and gifting him a glowing smile. She leaned forward for a kiss which Greg eagerly obliged. When their dishes arrived they took turns feeding each other delicate little morsels with their fingers, laughing and talking intimately. 

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Sherlock’s blood started to boil. He gulped down the rest of his drink. The bartender was at his elbow in a flash. “Another?” he asked. Sherlock nodded. “So, you alone tonight?” the young man asked with a too-bright smile. “No one should be alone tonight, of all nights.”

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“Christ,” Sherlock muttered. He looked the other man in the eye, forcing a smile. “Very kind of you but I’m not interested. Oh, look! There’s someone at the opposite end who needs another.” 

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The bartender, visibly dejected, pushed the new drink over and went to help the other customer whilst Sherlock continued to watch Greg and Molly. They were halfway through their second bottle of wine. She moved a little closer to him, pressing her thigh along his; his hand disappeared under their table. She slapped him lightly on his bicep and laughed, leaving her hand there and giving his arm a little squeeze. The skin under Sherlock’s right eye began to twitch.

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A woman in her late forties with dyed blonde hair approached the bar and offered to buy him a drink. He gave her a disdainful glance. “Christ, go away!” he snapped, shooing her off with a flick of his wrist. “I’m spying on my girlfriend. Go back to your husband. Why can’t people just leave me alone!” he growled.

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“Dickhead,” she muttered, rebuffed, as she veered towards the other end of the bar in search of less attractive, more amiable company.

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It was after dinner when Molly and Greg got up to dance that made him nearly explode. Their hands were all over each other, their bodies slowly swaying to the house band, her hips rolling against his, his hands wandering from her waist to her arse. He leaned forward, whispering something to her, and she laughed lightly at his comment, winding her arm closely around his neck and whispering back in his ear. They continued to slow dance, cheek to cheek, smiling like idiots.

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Sherlock’s stomach was rebelling at this disgusting display; his gorge was rising. This was all wrong. He couldn’t watch anymore.

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_I told you this was a stupid idea,_ his brain said. 

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“Right you are,” he muttered. He threw a £50 note on the bar, drained his glass, and left.

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_You just spent £100 to piss yourself off,_ his brain noted. _Moron._

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“Shut up,” he snarled.

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***

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	2. Crashing

  
**Crashing**

_She is gone  
But she was here  
And her presence is still heavy in the air  
Oh what a taste  
Of human love  
But now she's gone and it don't matter anymore_

Sherlock set out towards home, being annoyingly jostled by the crush of weekend revelers in the streets. He tried to calm down. What fresh hell was this? How could they do this to him? They’d been feeding each other, like lovers. And touching. A lot. In very intimate ways. The way they’d danced together suggested they were already…familiar with each others’ bodies.

 _They’re fucking,_ his brain clarified, bluntly. 

He grunted at this mental intrusion and started walking faster, trying to leave that thought behind him on the pavement where it belonged. Not them, he assured himself. It wasn’t possible. Greg was one of his best friends. And not his Molly. She wouldn’t do that to him, surely. But the thought dogged him, keeping pace with his increasing speed. 

_**They’re fucking,**_ his brain said, louder.

He growled and started to jog, weaving through the throngs of people clustered along the pavements, wanting to shove them all out of his way. Soon he broke into a flat-out run, trying to leave the entirety of his brain behind him. By the time he reached Baker Street he was angry, bewildered, and out of breath.

He entered his flat and tore off his coat, tossing it on the sofa. The walls of his flat were still blackened and charred from Eurus’ bomb, needing paint and wallpaper, but even with Mycroft’s urging and promises to pay for the repairs, he’d refused to move anywhere else. In this grim condition his home perfectly mirrored his heart and he felt at home there, standing alone amidst the burnt wreckage. 

He paced for a long while, ranting to himself about how unfair this whole thing was, wondering why Molly was being so cruel. “It’s not my fault my sister is a mentally unbalanced sadist,” he declared.

 _This isn’t about your sister,_ his brain pointed out. _It’s about Molly. And your behaviors._

“Yes, all right,” he sighed, annoyed, continuing to pace. Eventually, putting his fists on his hips, he stopped and looked around, trying to identify what he needed. He needed to calm down, needed something to stop his mind from exploding like a faulty rocket on the launchpad. He felt agitated, unable to gain the least modicum of mental perspective or emotional regulation, and the siren call of bad habits was quick to start singing its ugly, tempting song. The whiskey he’d drunk had whetted his appetite for something stronger. Seven percent stronger.

 _Cocaine?_ his brain suggested.

“Good idea,” he mumbled. He sped through the kitchen and down the hallway into his bedroom. There was always a packet or two he’d stashed away where Mycroft couldn’t find them on his regular “cleaning” raids on the flat. He pulled out a drawer on his dresser. They always checked the bottom of the drawer for the little white packet taped there, but they never checked the underside of the dresser itself. But it wasn’t there. He looked in the toes of his dress shoes, deep inside the large bottle of paracetamol in the medicine cabinet, underneath the jar of eyeballs in the fridge, and between the pages of a certain volume on the bookshelves in the sitting room. Nothing. He was getting frustrated. How could there be no cocaine?

He flung himself grumpily into his chair which was a mistake. In stopping his motion he activated his guilt. He’d been so wrapped up in her interest in Lestrade that he’d ignored the accusatory statements she’d flung at him. Selfish. Manipulative. Abusive. Liar.

 _Maybe some tea? It’s soothing,_ his brain offered. _You need to calm down. Get a grip on yourself._

“No goddamn soothing cups of tea tonight,” he spat. “I need something stronger.”

 _Maybe you didn’t like hearing what she said,_ his brain said.

“Who likes to hear that?” he snapped back. “Who likes to hear they’re abusive?”

_There must be truth in her words or you wouldn’t be so upset._

“I’m not upset!” he shouted. He growled and sunk deeper into his chair. Despite his denial, the seeds of shame she’d planted in his stomach quickly sprouted, sending long, painful tendrils of remorse up his chest and into his throat. He got up and went into the kitchen, rooting around the back of a cupboard, looking for the bottle of whiskey he kept on hand for John, hoping it would suffice to wash away these untenable feelings. Finding it, he pulled it out, grabbed a clean glass beaker and stalked back into the sitting room.

He threw himself into his chair and huffed. What a shit show this evening had become! Not only had she insulted him and blown him off despite his attempts to explain, he couldn’t get the image of her in that slinky blue dress out of his mind. You could see almost…everything. So could everyone else on the dance floor.

He poured himself a large slosh and downed it in one go.

The way the low, fitted bodice had bared her soft, lovely shoulders and pushed up her breasts, drawing attention to her cleavage, was more than distracting. It was…unsettling. It was like she was asking for Lestrade to bury his face in that sweet cleft and nuzzle away. And there was the way that dress had hugged her curves, accentuating her slim, gorgeous hips and sweet little arse. Who knew she had a shape like that? Why did she dress so seductively for that damn copper and wear baggy, misshapen clothes for him? He couldn’t understand it.

 _You’ve forgotten,_ his brain said. _She dressed that way for you once. That Christmas. A little black dress with silver trim and a cheap silver bow in her hair. She brought you a present. She was the present, really, wasn’t she? She was so expectant, so hopeful, so nervous, wanting your attention very badly. And you insulted her in front of everyone._

“Shit,” he muttered. Yes, he’d forgotten. He poured himself another drink. “I had other things on my mind at the time,” he reasoned. “She was a distraction.”

 _And yet she came into work that very night to help you,_ his brain continued. _She was only a distraction when you didn’t need her help._

“Yes, all right!” he capitulated. “I’m an arsehole. I thought we’d already agreed on that.” 

_So she’s dated other men. What did you expect? That she’d lock herself away like a nun until you came to your senses?_

“No,” he said, defensively. “Yes,” he whispered. It was an unreasonable expectation, he knew it, but he had to admit his pride had been flattered that she was waiting for him. His ego had thought she would always wait for him, that she would fly along at his side forever. That she would never truly be serious about anyone else.

 _Moriarty,_ his brain reminded him, laughing. _The consulting criminal. She dated your arch nemesis._

“Christ!” he winced, shuddering. Had they done it? They couldn’t possibly – she said she’d broken it off. Suddenly, all the times she’d possibly had sex came flooding into his mind. There must be dozens, he reckoned. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Okay, so there had been other men along the way before he arrived in her life, he admitted.

 _And after,_ his brain supplied. _Maybe you’re not as special as you like to believe._

“Fuck off,” he muttered. He’d met a few of her boyfriends, but for some reason, with the exception of Meat Dagger and her own admission of sex with him, the thought of her being with any of them in that way had never crossed his mind. 

_Sex!_ his brain sang in her voice. _We’re having lots and lots of sex!_

“Goddammit!” he yelled. He took another slug of whiskey and stewed in silence for a few minutes, trying to shut his brain down, trying to locate his dwindling self esteem, trying to turn his mind from thoughts of her tender, warm body pressed closely against his, of her lips on his hungry mouth. 

Soon enough, the alcohol started to hum in his veins, restoring his confidence, drowning out the other thoughts he didn’t want to address. Surely she was just angry. She loved him. Of that he was positive. All those other men were just poor imitations of himself, anyway, he assured himself smugly. He was the one she really wanted. She’ll come around, change her mind. They couldn’t have come this far to have it all go up in a puff of smoke, in an instant. “She loves me,” he told himself with a firm nod.

 _No, she doesn’t,_ his brain said. _She made that very clear tonight. She’s chosen that copper over you._

“What’s it going to take for you to shut up?” he muttered as he topped up his drink. The whiskey was whirling through him now, muddying his thoughts, and the burn in his stomach it gave him matched the ache in his heart. How could she do that? How could she shy away just as he was warming up?

 _She didn’t exactly shy away,_ his brain said. _She obliterated you._

Had she just…dumped him? It wasn’t possible; it was unthinkable. He was Sherlock Holmes, he never got dumped. By anyone. Besides, they weren’t even together. It was all so perplexing. “Christ!” he fumed, realizing he wanted her more than ever, now that he couldn’t have her.

 _They’re fucking,_ his brain reminded him.

“Quiet!” he shouted.

Maybe he should try a different line of thinking, he reasoned. Why does it matter? Why shouldn’t she sleep with whomever she wants? She was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.

 _She’s never needed you, anyway,_ his brain said. _Not really. It’s always been you needing her, hasn’t it? You’re the one who’s needed her help, her understanding, her compliance, her adoration. It’s just like she said. You’ve given her nothing in return._

“That’s not true,” he countered, squirming with discomfort. 

_Your selfishness sucked her dry. You’re a vampire._

“I’m not any worse than anybody else,” he argued. “I’m just more honest about it.” 

_Are you really?_ his brain countered, sarcastically.

He harrumphed, wanting to hit something, to feel the crunching satisfaction of something breaking under his fists. If this was the truth, and he was afraid it was, he didn’t much like it. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Let her have Lestrade, then, if that’s who she wants. He was a decent sort of man, if entirely inadequate for her. Why should he care? 

_But you do care,_ his brain countered.

“Yes, I do,” he agreed with a sigh. “Because I love her.” He’d finally admitted it. Too late, he realized; she’d moved on. It was irrevocable; he’d lost her, and to Lestrade, of all people. He groaned, poured himself another whiskey, took a large swallow, grimaced, and dropped his head into his hands.

He was rapidly losing clarity of thought and the ability to focus. His thoughts drifted back to watching them dance. The sight of Lestrade’s hands caressing Molly’s hips and arse had driven him crazy. The way she’d run her fingers through his hair as they moved together, her hips pushing against his, and the way he’d slathered kisses along her neck. There hadn’t been a millimeter of space between them. In public, too. Jesus! 

_They looked good together,_ his brain noted. _Very smart, very handsome._

“He’s too old for her!” he argued. 

_At least he doesn’t have problems with commitment._

With a deep, angry growl, he tossed down the remainder of his drink and refilled the beaker, slopping some of the whiskey on the table. His hands were shaking. 

Suddenly, he remembered he’d hidden a pack of cigarettes, tightly sealed in a plastic bag, taped inside the tank of the loo several months ago. He retrieved them and settled back in his chair. Lighting up, he took a long, steadying drag and tried to turn his thoughts to other things. 

_They’re fucking,_ his brain reminded him. 

Instantly, his mind was filled with images of them naked together in Molly’s bed, her gentle, clever fingers wandering over Greg’s torso, laughing softly, intimately, whilst playing with the silver hair on his goddamn firm, tanned chest — tickling him, enticing him, before moving further down to encircle and stroke his stiffening cock. His lips were buried in the crook of her neck, kissing her, sucking on her skin, having her in ways Sherlock never would. 

Molly slid onto her back, pulling Greg on top of her, spreading her legs for him. He kissed her breasts, sucking a firm, pink nipple into his mouth and gently bit down, laving it with his tongue, arousing her. She moaned and whimpered, arching into him as he caressed her body and began to stroke her warm, wet core with experienced fingers. She ran her nails up his back and ground her hips into his hand, her head thrown back, her eyes soft and filled with desire, her long, dark hair fanned out around her on the pillow, a beautiful, languid smile gracing her lips as he— 

“Wait a minute,” Sherlock said, shaking his head to obliterate the imagery. Where had this damned porn flick come from? He glared at the beaker of whiskey in his hand, as if it was responsible for this unwelcome intrusion. He shook his head again, trying to clear it, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. 

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The pictures in his head were giving him an erection. Molly’s warm brown eyes, her small, graceful hands, the shell of her ear, the curve of her stomach, the line of her back. Soft, creamy skin, begging to be adored, to be kissed, to be loved. He took another large gulp of whiskey; his brain wasn’t dull enough yet. 

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The movie, however, didn’t go away. It continued to unroll, torturing him with an unacceptable degree of clarity and detail. They were still at it, making slow, sweet love, moving together softly, intimately. Molly rolled her hips and pushed against Greg as he entered her and began to thrust, gently, lovingly. She sighed with pleasure, enjoying the feeling of him filling her completely, satisfying her carnal needs… 

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_Doggy style,_ his brain suggested.

The image changed. Molly was now on her hands and knees, her arse in the air, panting with lust, fisting the silk sheets whilst Greg thrust into her. Her legs were spread wide, completely open to him; she was loving the wild, rough sex and his thick, rigid cock pounding into her. She squealed and mewled with unabashed pleasure. Greg continued to thrust as hard as he could. She took him all and wanted more. A thin sheen of sweat covered them both, as if they’d been fucking like this for hours. 

Greg grabbed her long, luscious hair in his left hand and pulled her head back, causing her spine to arch whilst his right hand slipped around her side. He fondled her warm, round breasts, cupping them in his right hand, then rolled a nipple firmly between his fingers as he bent over and sank his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of her neck. She groaned, pushing against him, wanting more friction, more contact with his body. He pinched and tugged on her nipples, eliciting additional moans from her. 

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His hand slid lower, down her waist and over the gentle swell of her belly, before settling between her legs, finding her clit. He began to stroke it, rubbing it harder and faster as he continued to drive into her. Her hips started bucking uncontrollably as she met his thrusts, trying to take him deeper. They were like two animals mating, caught in the raw heat of desire, unable to control themselves. 

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Greg was trembling and groaning and Molly was squirming and panting with complete abandon, begging him to fuck her sweet cunt with all his might. With a few more strong, hard strokes Greg finally came, buried to the hilt inside her. He pinched her clit and she came, screaming his name. They both collapsed into the sheets, a pile of sweaty, intertwined limbs, nearly unconscious from the shuddering power of their release. 

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_Christ, look at the size of his cock,_ his brain said. 

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“Shut up!” Sherlock roared, unable to take it anymore. “You’re making this up! You don’t know how big he is!” 

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His own cock was hard and aching, and he was more than a little drunk. He stubbed out his smoke and rubbed himself through his trousers, trying to get some relief, feeling filthy and disgusting for what his brain was thinking and how his body was responding to this unacceptable fantasy. 

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_Cold shower,_ his brain suggested. _Knock that right down._

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“Good idea,” he said, getting up and weaving his way unsteadily towards the loo. He stripped off his clothes, got into the shower, took a deep breath, and cranked the cold. He immediately screamed out loud and fumbled for the tap, cutting the water off. “That was stupid,” he admitted, shivering from the icy, drenching blast. The cold water had instantly taken care of his problem, but he couldn’t continue showering at that frigid temperature. 

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He tried again, this time regulating the cold water with the hot, until steam began to fill the room. Ah, this is much better, he thought. He washed his hair slowly, rinsed and conditioned, then soaped up a flannel and began to scrub his face, chest and arms. The hot needles of water pounding against his back were relaxing, driving away his tension, and the rough, soapy flannel felt nice gliding over his skin. The unbearable strain of the past few hours began to dissipate. He closed his eyes and began to drunkenly luxuriate in the simple, soothing sensations, the hot, sluicing water and the fresh, clean, smell of the soap, feeling grateful for the bubbles carrying his heartache down the drain with them. 

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_Imagine showering with her,_ his brain offered. _Imagine her caressing you._

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He moaned, unable to resist the suggestion, her image flooding his thoughts again, wanting her so badly he could barely breathe. Giving in to temptation, he let his slick, soapy hand slide down his belly to his cock, which sprang back to life at his touch. He started to slowly stroke himself, imagining her lips on his, her hands wandering over his body, her soft voice whispering tenderly in his ear as the water cascaded over them. 

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The shower curtain moved aside, and she stepped naked into the shower with him, winding one arm gently around his neck, kissing him deeply, whilst taking his hardening cock in her other hand. She started to stroke him just the way he liked, soft and slow at first, then firmer and faster as his desire grew and the heat in his belly sparked. He braced his free hand against the wall as his pace increased, his need for her building, letting the steaming water drive his fantasy, letting her set the pace that would take him to fulfillment. 

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“Oh, Christ, Molly,” he murmured, his body trembling. He wanted to be the one fucking her, not Lestrade. He wanted to be the one to bring her pleasure, to fill her soft need with his hard yearning, to worship her body and soul. He wanted to be the one caressing her lips, her breasts, her thighs. He wanted to hear her screaming his name when he made her come, and to have her curl, fulfilled, into his arms once they were sated. “Oh, Molly, Molly,” he breathed into the tiles lining the shower wall. He was nearly there now, stroking himself rapidly and firmly. He could almost feel her hands on his cock as the growing tightness in his belly suddenly snapped and expanded. 

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He groaned as he came, but quickly emptied of delight as the realization hit home that none of this would ever be possible now. They’d never take a shower together, never share a bed, a home, or their hearts. He’d never see a secret sparkle in her eyes just for him, never be able to kiss her sweet mouth, never again share a private laugh, never know the comforts of her embrace. 

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“Christ, what a bollocks I’ve made of this,” he muttered. 

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He cut off the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and staggered miserably back to the sitting room to finish the bottle of whiskey. Just before he passed out he remembered it was Valentine’s Day, and he managed a short, ironic laugh as the darkness swept over him. 

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*** 

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	3. Some Advice

**Some Advice**

_Passing dreams  
In the night  
It was more than just a woman and a man  
It was love  
Without disguise  
And now my life will never be the same again_

—The next morning, Baker Street—

John Watson pushed open the door to the sitting room, only to be greeted by the sight of a naked Sherlock Holmes, seemingly unconscious, sprawled face down on the carpet in front of the fireplace. 

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, approaching his friend to ascertain if he was breathing. A small snore assured him he was. John looked around the flat. A damp towel was wadded up on Sherlock’s chair, staining the leather. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor, an overturned beaker next to it, and the flat reeked of cigarette smoke. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. Evidently Sherlock’s reunion with Molly had not gone well.

“Sherlock, wake up,” John said. “Lestrade’s expecting us in forty minutes.” There was no response. He nudged Sherlock’s bare hip with his shoe. “Sherlock!”

“Mmff,” the corpse mumbled. “Leave me alone. I’m dying.”

John heaved a sigh and picked up the towel, the whiskey bottle, the beaker, and the overflowing ashtray, heading into the kitchen to flick on the kettle. Making two cups of coffee, he put one on the carpet near Sherlock’s head along with two paracetamol and settled into his chair. “Get up,” he instructed. “Rise and shine.”

Sherlock flipped onto his back and moaned, throwing his arm over his eyes to guard against the bright morning light streaming in through the windows. John instantly grabbed the plaid blanket off the back of his chair and blindly tossed it over his naked friend. “Christ, Sherlock! Must you? Mrs. Hudson could come in at any moment. Don’t subject her to this. Or me, for that matter.”

“She ought to know better by now than to just barge in here,” Sherlock muttered. “Do I smell coffee?”

“By your head,” John said. “And take the pills. Now, what’s going on? You’ve got to get up. Get going. Lestrade has a case for us.”

“I’m not going,” he stated. “I’m never leaving this flat again. I might as well be dead for all she cares.”

“Who? Mrs. Hudson?”

“No! Not her. Molly. She hates me,” he whined.

“But Lestrade’s got a case for us!” John argued. “It’ll take your mind off…whatever happened. What did happen, anyway?” he asked, growing curious.

Sherlock blearily sat up, swallowed the pain relievers, and started nursing his coffee. “It was terrible, John! I went over there, to…explain, to tell her how much I…love her, that I can’t live without her.” He paused, rubbing his brows. “Christ my head hurts.” 

“Yeah, half a bottle of whiskey will do that,” John said. Sherlock silently sipped his coffee, staring gloomily into space. “And?” John prodded.

“Well, I don’t understand exactly what happened, but apparently she dumped me.”

“What? How is that possible?” John asked, frowning. “You weren’t dating. Technically, one has to be dating in order for there to be a dumping.”

“I know! That’s what I don’t understand!” Sherlock wailed. “She said all sorts of horrible things. She called me abusive, John. Manipulative and cruel. Me! It was awful.”

“Yeah, they’ll do that when they’re angry,” John commiserated. “You’ve got a lot to learn about women, Sherlock. For one thing, you shouldn’t have waited so long. Sherrinford was a week ago. Rule number one. Never keep a woman waiting - it’s a sure way to piss them off. That’s basic. Every guy on the planet knows that.”

“She said she wasn’t angry,” he grumbled. 

John snorted unbelievingly. “Likely story,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Did you tell her what happened? At Sherrinford?”

“She didn’t want to hear it,” he sighed. “She barely let me say anything! She just started trashing me the minute I walked in and didn’t stop.”

“Yeah, that’s anger,” John explained. “Look, Sherlock, she’s been in love with you for ages. Most likely she still is. You’ve just managed to piss her off beyond your normal capability, beyond her limits.”

Sherlock gave him a flat stare. “You didn’t see her eyes last night, John,” he said. “I did. They were…cold. Unforgiving, hostile. I’ve seen kinder eyes on serial killers. It was…” he shuddered, “chilling.”

John barked out a short laugh. “Scary, isn’t it?” he remarked. “The way women can do that? Aw, you’re just not used to it, Sherlock. Usually that damnable charm of yours cuts through all that…” he waved his hand in the air, “ _stuff_ you do. And for once in your life you failed to get what you want.” He shrugged.

“But, John, after she hurled abuse at me and said she didn’t love me anymore, she went out with _him_ ,” Sherlock continued. “They were touching! And dancing. And kissing!” He shivered with disgust at their betrayal.

“Him who?”

“That man. The one I’m never helping again. The one we’re _not_ going to see in forty minutes.”

John checked his watch. “Half an hour. Wait, what? She went out with Greg? Greg Lestrade?”

“Stop saying his name!” Sherlock shouted before moaning and clutching his head.

John heaved a sigh, rubbed his forehead, and got up to make another cup. It was going to be a long morning, he realized; he needed more coffee to get through this. “Get dressed, Sherlock. I’ll text Gr—, uh, _him_ and cancel, and then we can talk about it, okay?”

Grumbling, Sherlock got up and went to put on some clothes whilst John texted Lestrade to cancel. When he returned, he was wearing sweatpants, an old polo shirt, and mismatched socks, a clear indication that he was indeed not leaving the flat today. He folded himself into his chair and hugged his knees. 

An expression settled onto his features that John had only seen a few times before, most notably when they were in Sebastian’s office at Shad Sanderson, trying to solve a break-in during the Tong smuggling case. He looked wretched and downcast. Sherlock was feeling bad about himself again, John realized. “Talk to me, Sherlock,” he said, gently. “Maybe it will help if you talk about it.”

“Unlucky in love, lucky in cards — isn’t that what they say, John? Maybe I should find a poker game today,” Sherlock joked, but there was an edge to his voice. “I wish the Clarence House cannibal was still alive. She’d understand.”

“I still think Molly’s just angry,” John offered. “It’s not like you’re difficult to get angry at. I’ve wanted to kill you any number of times.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” John asked, as he took a sip of coffee.

“Not kill me. Like me at all. Get others to like you. Be so good.”

John shrugged. “I don’t kill you because you’re my best friend and then I’d be lonely,” he explained with a spread of his hands. “And I have an incredible amount of restraint.” He sighed before continuing. “I’m hardly good, Sherlock. I’m quick to anger, I drink too much, and I have dubious taste in friends.”

Sherlock smiled a little at the joke before that heart-wrenching expression settled onto his features once more. “How do I get her to like me again? I have to win her back, John.”

“First of all, why?”

“Why do I have to get her back? Because I love her. I thought that was obvious.”

“No, why do you love her?” John asked. “Why now? She’s been after you for years and you always blew her off, ignored her, made…comments. What changed?”

Sherlock looked away and seemed embarrassed. “I’m not going to give you a dissertation on why I admire her or how angelic she is. Correction. Can be, when she’s not physically assaulting me or reaming me out for being a terrible person.”

“Some angels do an awful lot of slapping,” John noted with a smile. “Got to wake you up somehow. But I thought you didn’t care what other people think of you.”

“A good scientist will adjust their hypothesis once new data becomes available. I care about her good opinion, apparently. News to me,” he shrugged, baffled. “I’ve never been so bothered — it’s unpleasant,” he stated. “How do you lot absorb all the scrutiny and not collapse into doubt?”

John ignored his attempts to deflect. “So you admit you admire her,” he noted, quietly pressuring him to elaborate.

“Yes, of course I do! And, uh, if you really must know,” Sherlock mumbled, “I think I’ve…loved her for a long time. Years maybe, but it just became startlingly clear during that phone call. On the possibility that I might lose her, that it might be my fault if she died. I couldn’t take that, John. And there she was, making me say it, and suddenly I realized it was true.” There was a long pause. “And I’m beginning to dislike being…alone,” he said quietly, looking pained at this admission of his all-too-human vulnerability. 

John nodded, aware that Sherlock’s hungover state was probably accounting for his rare honesty. “Loneliness is a terrible thing,” he agreed. “Eats your soul.”

“I didn’t say I was lonely,” Sherlock was quick to point out. “I said alone — they’re different— and then you extrapolated. And I don’t have a soul. Neither do you. That’s nonsense made up by people afraid of dying, scared of impermanence, and wanting to believe they’re somehow special. That they’ll go on forever. The notion that the universe is a steady, permanent state was mathematically disproven decades ago. Everything and everyone eventually gets annihilated.”

“C’mon, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head. “It’s what you meant; stop distracting. It’s okay to have feelings, you…clot,” he added. “Besides, your argument only proves that we should make the most of any opportunity we find to connect with other people, to build intimacy whilst we can. It’s all we have. ‘No man is an island.’ John Donne.”

“‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel,” Sherlock fired back. “‘And a rock feels no pain.’”

“Jesus,” John breathed. The man could be so aggravating. “You’re not a rock, you idiot. You’re a human being with blood, flesh and unstable emotions just like everybody else.” 

There was a silence as Sherlock absorbed this statement. “I suppose I am,” he finally agreed, with an unhappy sigh. “Dammit.”

“Well, that’s a new admission,” John said. “Finally thinking about the possibility of actual human interaction, then?” Sherlock managed to growl, shift restlessly in his chair, and roll his eyes simultaneously. “Do you think you’ll be able to make her happy?” John asked. “Happier than she might be with Gr—, with him?”

“Well,” Sherlock responded with a shrug. “I have to. I mean…I want to. I owe her so much.”

“Charm offensive,” John suggested. “Be nice to her. Compliment her, treat her well, do nice things for her. She’ll drop him so fast it’ll make you dizzy.”

“I’m not sure I remember how to do that,” he admitted, looking uncomfortable. “It’s been a long time since I was forced to be nice to anyone.”

“That’s for sure,” John said, dryly. “Listen, Sherlock, it’s not hard to be nice to people. Think of them first, what they need, what they might like to hear.”

“You mean lie to them.”

“Not exactly,” John replied, with a sigh and a sharp shake of his head. “God, you’re a tough egg to crack, aren’t you? Surely you understand what people need. Give it to them. Engage your heart.” Sherlock scowled. “No, don’t give me that face,” John continued. “You have a heart, you just like to pretend you don’t. Ask yourself is what you’re saying kind? Is it helpful? Not everything has to be about you scoring snark points against idiots.”

Sherlock sighed. “This is going to be painful,” he muttered.

“Think of it as a grand gesture. For love.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock squirmed. “Romance.”

“Look, this isn’t a momentary thing,” John said, with a bit of heat, growing angry at his obstinacy. “Or a passing experiment you can get through and be done. If I gauge this correctly, she’s asking you to change. To be the man she knows you can be. I think you’ve violated her trust, Sherlock. You’ve got to win that back. Go slowly, gently. You’d be an idiot not to take this seriously. If you really want her, you’re going to have to make some sacrifices.”

Sherlock balked, but John could tell he was listening. 

“I know you’re not used to that,” John continued, “but don’t you think it’s a worthy endeavor? She is pretty special. I mean, look how she puts up with you now.”

“You mean like how she ripped out my heart last night and stomped on it?”

John shook his head. “You drove her to that, Sherlock, over the years, with your callous disregard of her feelings. You know you did. But I’m betting she’d change her mind if you made an effort. She’s worth it, don’t you think? She’s caring and kind, has a wicked, morbid sense of humor which is right up your alley, she’s smart and beautiful, you have interests in common…”

“Don’t be getting any ideas,” Sherlock warned. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” John said. “Besides, she’s not interested in me. She wants you.”

“I’m not even sure of that anymore,” Sherlock grumbled. “Suppose I’ve blown it entirely?”

“Then prove yourself to her. Give her a few days to calm down, and then show her you heard her concerns, that you’ve changed. Sherlock, personal growth is hard, it takes focus and intent. But if you want to make her happy like you say you do, then put in the work. Become a better version of yourself. For her happiness. Patch it up.”

There was a long silence whilst Sherlock thought about John’s words. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to try, does it?” he ventured, looking a little nervous.

“Best decision you could make,” John said, firmly, nodding.

***


	4. A Secret, Revealed

**A Secret, Revealed**

_Forgiving you was easy but forgetting seems to take the longest time  
I just keep thinking and your memory is forever on my mind  
You know I'll always love you and I can't forget the days when you were mine  
Forgiving you is easy but forgetting seems to take the longest time_

Both men stopped talking as they heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Mycroft entered the room, his face set and grim. Turning a chair towards them, he sat down and briefly nodded to John.

“Sherlock,” he began, “I have some bad news, and I want you to prepare yourself.”

“Oh, god!” Sherlock cried. “Is it mummy?”

“No, no, mummy’s fine. It’s…Sarah. There’s been an accident. She’s okay!” he hastened to add, as all the color drained from Sherlock’s face. “Well, she’ll be okay. I hope. But Addison and Beth have been…killed.”

Sherlock put his hand over his mouth, stricken. “God, no! Oh, Mycroft! What…what happened?”

“They were at their holiday home in Scotland, you know the one, near Blairgowrie, skiing for the half term. They were headed back from the slopes late yesterday and the weather turned bad. You remember that road. Very dangerous.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide. “Apparently the car skidded off the icy road and…tumbled down the side of the mountain,” Mycroft continued. “Lord Addison and Elizabeth were killed, and Lady Br—, Sarah, was trapped in the car with Scott.” His eyes flicked over to John for a half second. “Her spine was…fractured. I had them airlifted to King’s College here in London this morning, and I’m making sure they’re getting the best possible care. I know what she means to you, Sherlock. They’re pretty sure she’s going to recover.”

Sherlock was already putting on his trainers.

“It’s no good, little brother,” Mycroft continued. “You can’t see her. She’s in critical care.”

“I’d like to see them try to stop me,” Sherlock responded with a growl, grabbing his Belstaff and running out of the flat.

John looked at Mycroft. “What was that about? Who’s Sarah?”

“Old family friend,” Mycroft answered. “Nobody important.”

“Why have I never heard him mention her?”

“Like I said, she’s not that important.” He began to rise from his chair.

John’s brows furrowed. “Wait a minute. Sit down,” he demanded. Mycroft sat and carefully adopted a neutral expression, whilst John put his hand on his chin and observed him for a few moments. “You know, I don’t believe you,” he finally said, firmly, pointing towards the door. “His reaction just now was pretty strong. People don’t go rushing off like that about people they barely know. And you said ‘I know what she means to you.’ What did you mean by that?”

“I…misspoke,” Mycroft muttered. 

“That’s not going to work this time, either,” John said, glaring at him. “Out with it.”

Mycroft shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not a…satisfying story,” he said. “You wouldn’t like it. And he wouldn’t appreciate it if I told you. It’s private.”

“So there is a story,” John nodded. “Some deep, dark, awful secret from his past? Another one? Jesus, Mycroft, how many secrets does your family have?”

Mycroft took a long breath, looked out the window, and didn’t answer. His features settled stubbornly into unreadability, looking exactly like Sherlock’s when confronted with something he didn’t want to address.

“Lady Br…,” John mused to himself. “Lady Sarah. Lord Addison and Lady Sarah Br…Br... Brayley! Oh, my god. I’ve heard of them. From Devon, yes?”

“No,” Mycroft said, curtly. 

“Yes, it is,” John argued. “Yes, they are.”

“Their estate is in Corsham, near Bath, in Somerset,” Mycroft explained, with a decided chill in his voice.

“They’re famous, hang with royals,” John went on. “Very upper crust. She’s active with the Prince’s Trust, right? And he’s a high commissioner to…to…somewhere.” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. 

“Malta,” Mycroft supplied, curtly.

“That’s who it is, isn’t it? And their two children, the twins, what’s their names…Scott, Scott… and Elizabeth, right? They’re what, sixteen now? God, Mycroft. That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it’s very sad,” Mycroft agreed. “The family’s visibility makes this a rather delicate situation. There’s already rumors that alcohol was involved, which is utter nonsense. I know…knew Addison extremely well and he didn’t drink. It was a simple accident on a treacherous mountain road. The tabloids are stirring up trouble again. Anyway, John, what happened between Sherlock and her decades ago has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“If Sherlock is affected,” John said, “then it does have to do with me. I’m his best friend. I’m the one who’s going to have to support him through this, since you’re bollocks at it. Tell me what happened.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh and considered John’s demand. “I’m wondering if it would be helpful if I told you. It might help you to understand him better. On the other hand, it might cause you to lose some of your admiration for him, as he was monumentally stupid when he was young. 

“You see, John, I happen to believe that your good opinion of him is rather beneficial and I wouldn’t like to see that…damaged.” Mycroft sighed again, resigned to his fate. “All right. I guess it can’t hurt. But if I tell you, you must promise not to tell anyone else, or to let Sherlock know that you know. I’ll catch hell. Well, more than the normal allotment anyway.”

John shrugged and nodded. “Fine,” he agreed.

Mycroft got up and moved over to Sherlock’s chair. “That client chair you have is incredibly uncomfortable,” he stated. “You should get a different one.”

“Sherlock keeps that one because it is uncomfortable,” John explained, smiling. “It means the clients won’t stay long.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. “There is method in his madness.” He looked around the room at the charred, peeling wallpaper, the piles of blackened wreckage pushed into the corners. “My god, this place looks like the back end of hell,” he said, rubbing his eyebrows. “I’ve been in better doss houses…you know what, never mind,” he sighed. “If I start thinking about that I’ll go mad.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs, folding his hands into his lap. He turned his attention back to John. “So. John. I think a little family history is required at the outset.” He cleared his throat. “Our mummy is a distant cousin of Lady Anne Holstead Sharpe, Sarah’s mother,” he began. “The ties between our families extend back more than 400 years. They have an estate, Holsworthy, just outside of Okehampton, northwest of Dartmoor.

“Mummy used to stop there when she was little to visit with Anne, who is mummy’s junior by only a year or two. They would play together the entire summer. The grounds are large and well kept, with woods, a stream running through the property, a lake for fishing, even several small caves, rock overhangs, really, perfect for children’s adventures. The style of the house is gothic revival, built in the 18th century, 1760, I believe, and quite a fine example. It’s large and rambling, filled with dark, twisting staircases, lots of unexplored rooms for rainy days, and piles of dogs and cats. Lady Anne has always picked up strays.” He smiled to himself.

“It sounds rather Narnian,” John observed.

“Yes, exactly, but without the crazy uncle in the attic. He was on our side of the fence,” Mycroft chuckled, warming to his topic. “Of course, Lady Anne’s surname name was Holstead back then; she was an only child and inherited the estate. She took Lord Ronald Sharpe’s name when they married. He was the fifth son and inherited next to nothing, so he moved to Holsworthy upon his marriage. 

“Mummy and Lady Anne think of each other almost like sisters, serving as bridesmaids for each others’ weddings and all that. Mummy is actually Sarah’s godmother. We still see them once or twice a year, mummy a bit more often than that. So much for family history; now we begin.

“After Eurus murdered Victor and burned down our house, Uncle Rudy took her away,” he continued, “and Sherlock started to forget. It didn’t happen all at once, it wasn’t quick, it took a considerable number of months for him to completely erase all his memories of her and our move to the new house didn’t agree with him. During that year he showed clear signs of emotional distress. Night terrors, lack of appetite, emotional outbursts, performing poorly at school, and a disregard for things he’d previously enjoyed.”

“He was depressed,” John said.

“Yes. Depressed, with significant trauma reactions. It was disturbingly like watching a balloon slowly deflate, leaving nothing but a sad, wrinkled shell behind. But then mummy, during one of her rare occurrences of motherly insight, got the idea that sending Sherlock to Holsworthy for the summer might help him. Lady Anne was more…adept in the nurturing department and she had several children, Sarah being the youngest. Sarah was five and Sherlock was six; he would have a playmate, lots of dogs, and a fresh, loving household to recover in. Sarah was a bright child with a lot of spine and a rather fearsome temper and we thought they might fit well together. That her mettle might rekindle his spirit and his gentle thoughtfulness might soothe the fire in her.”

“Hang on,” John interrupted. “Sherlock? Gentle?”

“Ah, you didn’t know him when he was very young,” Mycroft explained. “He was a sweet boy; everyone adored and babied him. Mummy spoiled him rotten. He had those wild dark curls, gigantic blue eyes, and such a cute little pout which he quickly learned to use to his advantage. But he was highly sensitive and introspective. Not the arrogant, over-confident, man-child you know today. The roads he’s walked since those halcyon days have caused him to develop some of his…less than kindly characteristics. For protection.”

“Yeah, okay, I can see that,” John said, nodding. “I mean, he still can be sensitive and introverted, in a way. He’s just piled on the disagreeable bits to push people away. From where I sit that actually seems like a healthy response to people lying to him his entire life,” John said, eyeing Mycroft significantly.

“I keep telling you it was for his own good,” Mycroft retorted, defensively. “And I was only helping him continue what he’d already chosen to do — forget her. I wish you’d get over it, John. He has.”

John slowly tilted his head in a manner that reminded Mycroft of Sherlock when he was readying a challenge. “Do you really think he’s gotten over it? Something like that sticks on you for a lifetime, you never really ‘get over it,’ do you?”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right, John,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I worry about him constantly, and perhaps I haven’t adequately made…amends for my part in it.” He shrugged.

“Anyway, at age six,” he continued, “off he went to Holsworthy for the summer. It turned out to be everything we could have hoped for. Sarah and he got along swimmingly and he began to recover. We thought she might eventually become something like a sister to Sherlock, to replace the one who was…lost. Sarah’s very smart and curious, a generous personality, really, and the two of them played together wonderfully. She bossed him around something fierce,” he chuckled. “She still does. We were so relieved to see the positive change in him because his decline had been…heartbreaking to witness.” 

Mycroft paused for a minute and looked into the cold fireplace, turning his face slightly away from John, suddenly aching for the sweet, innocent child his brother had once been. His expression bordered on regret, John realized. Then Mycroft shook himself, collected his thoughts, and continued.

“Sherlock enjoyed Holsworthy so much we sent him back the next summer, and the next, and so on for the next decade. His improvement was heartening and I was gratified to see him sharpening his interests in science and chemistry as he grew as well as honing those physical senses which have served him well in his chosen career although he was, of course, still far from the skill level he possesses today. 

“As the two of them grew older her father, Lord Robert, set up a small chemistry lab in a vacant room in the house for them to conduct their experiments and the extensive library was packed full of interesting things to read which advanced their study. They have a very fine science section. She was particularly adept at botanical extractions, as I recall. They blew up their makeshift lab once with a homemade still, cobbled together with various items they’d stolen from the kitchen.”

“Sounds idyllic,” John said. “What’s the problem?”

“What the families failed to take into account,” Mycroft explained, “what we neglected to consider was how close the relationship had grown between Sherlock and Sarah over the years. We assumed they were merely friends, playmates, scientific explorers together, nothing more.”

“But they were closer?”

“In fact, John, a romance had blossomed between them over the years. Head over heels. It was the worst case of puppy love I’ve ever had the displeasure to witness. There were heated declarations of undying love, of eternal fires, you know, the usual nonsense.”

“What?” John asked in astonishment. “They fell in love? Sherlock fell in love?”

“Yes, he fell hopelessly in love. He’s always been irritatingly illogical, overly…passionate, and given half a chance the romantic in him spilled forth.” This was as close to admitting Sherlock possessed emotions than Mycroft — himself guilty of that crime — was ever likely to get. “I was as disappointed in finding this out as you are now, John. Sherlock Holmes, mere mortal, caught in the distracting snares of Aphrodite. It proved to be a tempestuous affair.”

“Sturm and Drang?”

“Of monumental proportions. Once they were found out, that is. They had told no one, preferring the mystery of a secret liaison. Or perhaps they were too wrapped up in each other to care. Apparently you can hide lots of things in an enormous house.”

“So how did you find out?” John asked.

“In August, on Sarah’s 16th birthday, when Sherlock was stopping there over the summer before he entered uni, her father informed her that she was to marry the young Lord Addison Brayley in three year’s time.”

John sat, stunned. “What? An arranged marriage?” He snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding, Mycroft. Nobody does that anymore.”

“On the contrary, John. It happens more often than you realize, especially among the landed gentry. Anne and Robert’s marriage had been arranged and it worked out wonderfully, especially for Lord Robert. After all, he ended up with Holsworthy. Quite a step up for him, actually. He had a title and no money, she had money and gained a title. Sarah’d been groomed for that exact same thing all her life. The problem was no one had bothered to inform her. The families had assumed she understood.”

“That’s disgusting,” John said. “What century are we living in again?”

Mycroft gave him a flat stare and shook his head. “I had thought you were more worldly, John. These things do happen – look at Lady Diana.”

“C’mon, Mycroft. Look how well that turned out,” John retorted.

“I’m not in charge of the social fabric of England,” Mycroft said, coldly. “I’m just telling you what happened. It’s not like she was sold into slavery, you know.”

“There’s more parallels in that analogy than you realize,” John pointed out.

“Yes, all right,” Mycroft sighed, irked. “Anyway, neither she nor Sherlock took the news particularly well. According to the report I had from Lady Anne, that night there was a great deal of shouting and wild, passionate promises, which were rebuffed at first, then rightly ignored. Which turned out to be a mistake because they ran away together the very next day.”

“Jesus!” John breathed. “Ran away? Did they get marr— please tell me they didn’t go to Scotland.”

“No,” Mycroft answered. “They didn’t. I don’t know whether they were just too stupid to try or had already decided marriage in general was a societal construct they could live without, but they didn’t attempt it. Not that it would have mattered and perhaps they knew that. Their marriage would have been instantly annulled the moment they were…retrieved. 

“Both families hired private detectives to locate them. I believe that was Sherlock’s first exposure to the world and workings of private detectives. Sometimes I wonder if that was one of the things that drew him to it, in addition to the obvious, gruesome attractions. A chance to reinterpret the genre, so to speak, an opportunity to nullify the treatment he and Sarah had received. Notice he usually takes the side of the underdog, the desperate, the terrified. He has a sympathy towards…fairness, towards justice for the downtrodden, for the oppressed.” 

John nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “The lure of money and status doesn’t seem to matter to him at all. I’ve seen him turn down cases worth thousands.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft replied. “Anyway, a few weeks later they were discovered living in a rundown shack in some backwater village in Southwestern Wales,” he continued. “Carnhedryn, if I recall. Sherlock was working in a petrol station, of all places, making next to nothing. Thank god there wasn’t a pregnancy – they were, apparently, shagging like rabbits.” Mycroft’s lip curled.

“Oh my god,” John muttered. “So much for the virgin theory.”

“They were hauled home. It was, to put it mildly, a dramatic scene worthy of our best actors. Sherlock was furious, promising to try again, Sarah vowing the same. We had to separate them somehow. Permanently. So, she was shipped off to boarding school in Switzerland; Sherlock was sent to uni and his passport confiscated, locked up at our family’s solicitor’s office in London.

“Five days later we were contacted by his school. He’d disappeared. It didn’t take long for Uncle Rudy to find him, of course, there’s only a few cities that have crossings to the continent. And we’d already suspected he’d bolt. He’d gone to Newcastle and was trying to get passage across the channel. He wasn’t having much luck due to his obvious youth and lack of papers. An, um, shall we say envoy, a representative from the families was sent to talk some sense into him.”

“You mean a solicitor? What kind of a representative…oh! It was you, wasn’t it?” John said, accusingly, struck by a sudden intuition. “You were the envoy.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, lacing his fingers together so John wouldn’t see them trembling. This conversation was distressing, he realized, rehashing all this unpleasantness. He cleared his throat, steadied his voice, and continued. “It was generally assumed, because we were brothers, that I might be able to bring him to see reason. To explain how unsuitable their affair was. I was in my mid-20’s and had more experience, more…perspective on life.”

“Jesus!” John exclaimed, glaring. “Poor Sherlock! That was rotten of you. Of all of you. What a horrible story!”

“I told you, you wouldn’t like it,” Mycroft responded, defensively. “But I had a charge, a duty to both of our families, to save them from themselves. They were underage, not capable of making rational or legal decisions. If they had been paying more attention, they might have noticed their little romance was doomed from the outset. But they were both oblivious to convention and to standards of behavior. Or maybe they thought hundreds of years of tradition might be set aside to indulge their teenage…lust.” He snorted. “That was never going to happen.”

“So you purposefully broke his heart,” John said. “Made him break it off.”

“Yes, I did,” Mycroft agreed, with a sad nod. “It took a bit of doing, and I had to lean on him quite firmly. You know how stubborn…how intractable he can be.”

“Whatever did you say?” John asked. “How could you support this? This really is awful, Mycroft,” he added. “Hurting your brother, purposefully, like that.”

“You sound like Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft stated, with a dour sigh. 

“Sometimes I think she’s the only one around here with a heart and common sense,” John rejoined.

Mycroft shrugged, as if those words held no meaning at all. “They were teenagers!” he said, contemptuously. “What parent gives any credence to the mercurial whims and incoherent notions of teenagers? Do you really think they were going to be allowed to stay together? Be serious, John.”

“What parent squashes a…young love like that?” John spat out, clearly angry. “Never mind. Obviously yours do, and your entire family excels in fucking up one of their own.”

“Maybe this conversation was a mistake,” Mycroft said, his back straightening. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, go on,” John urged. “In for a penny, in for a pound. It certainly is helping me understand him better, even if I have…opinions about it. My opinion of you, however, is sinking even lower, if that’s possible.”

“Fine,” Mycroft relented, trying not to feel stung by John’s remark. “As you wish. In persuading him I used the concept of sacrifice,” he said. 

John paled, remembering what he’d asked of Sherlock not half an hour before. Shit, he thought. No wonder Sherlock had recoiled at that word.

“I asked him to think of her future and what, objectively, would be in her best interests,” Mycroft continued. “What could he offer her? He had nothing — no money, no advanced schooling, no career. He was seventeen years old and doing…manual labor.” The distaste in his voice was clear. “And at the rate they were shagging, they’d probably produce a child within a year. What kind of a future could they have? The statistics on teen marriage are rather grim, you know. 

“On the other hand, the Brayley family could offer her wealth and a position in society. Addison, even at his young age —three years older than Sarah — and with the help of family connections, was already mapping out a promising career in political diplomacy. She would be taken care of beautifully, no need unmet. I explained to Sherlock that a sacrifice on his part would be the best thing for her future life. He simply had to let her go.”

“What about love?” John asked. “The Brayley family wasn’t offering love.”

“That was his argument,” Mycroft said. “Imagine that! Sherlock, pleading sentiment. But I stuck to my duty — I had to, John. I explained that arranged marriages can be very good, very solid. Maybe not wildly passionate, but affection and regard often develop. And in this case I was proven correct. They have… damn, I guess I should say had…had a satisfactory, a beneficial marriage. Addison was a decent, kind man. He understood, and he made allowances for her…loss. And she grew fond of him over time, especially after the twins arrived. It might not be a stretch to say they grew to love each other. Even Sherlock, back then, once he saw how right I was, agreed. He had nothing to offer her. So he returned to uni. For good.”

“And started using heroin,” John added, snidely.

“I don’t know if you can understand this,” Mycroft said, patiently, “but it broke my heart to have to break his. The dissolution of the affair was for the best, for all concerned. And yes, he didn’t handle it very well. He started using drugs. Whether that was the old trauma resurfacing, or his anger at us—“

“At you,” John supplied.

“At me,” Mycroft agreed with another sad nod, “or something else entirely I’ll never know. Almost overnight he swore off romantic relationships and sexual entanglements, he hardened his heart, and he changed into the scornful, dismissive creature you know today. And after uni he obsessively threw himself, in equal parts, into his detective work and his drug habit. 

“Over the intervening years he’s grown bolder in thought, more reckless in action, and more cutting in speech. A great chasm opened up between him and the rest of the world which has not entirely mended. And now that I think about it,” Mycroft added dryly, “he’s spent those intervening years developing his own unique brand of cruelty, following a long family tradition. Regardless of his own inadequacies in the interpersonal realm, he’s a master of psychology concerning others.”

“Oh my god,” John breathed, a frown creasing his brows, thinking about Sherlock’s thwarted, damaged development whilst Mycroft watched him, his expression unreadable. “I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this!”

“We never speak of it,” Mycroft stated. “Not one word, from that day to this.”

“Jesus!” John exclaimed, hotly. “So you mean all that,” he waved his hand around, “ _machine_ stuff he does is just an…affectation?”

“We’re all constructs, aren’t we?” Mycroft replied. “He’s just better at it than most. Or worse, depending on your viewpoint. But he believes it, you know. Or tries to believe it, at any rate. He modeled himself after our sister, the sociopath. It probably was his way of remembering her.”

There was a long silence, John trying to absorb all this information and Mycroft monitoring him for a reaction like a scientist studies a specimen. “Do they still see each other?” John asked.

“Oh, yes. Several times a year, on certain holidays, family gatherings and the like. You know, she changed, too,” he mused. “She became less defiant, less bold, and grew to…bend towards the men in her life. Anyway, Sherlock approved of Addison after a time and he’s always had a soft spot for Lady Anne, who’s a bit unique, to put it mildly. Sarah and he both act like it’s fine, water under the dam and all that, but there are still currents between them. It stings sometimes to watch them together. And he usually disappears for a few weeks afterwards, to lick his wounds I suppose. Nobody knows where he goes; even I can’t find him. But, overall, he’s…adjusted. He accepted what had to happen, as did she.”

“Do you think he still loves her?”

“That’s a difficult question, John. There is clearly a special place in what remains of his heart for her. Always will be, I suppose. How deep his affection goes is known only to him.”

“And did she know he wasn’t dead? After the Moriarty thing?”

“No, she didn’t know. She thought he’d really jumped, and of course I couldn’t tell her the truth. She was inconsolable, fell into a deep depression, and had to go under the care of a doctor. It was awful. It took all of Addison’s patience and understanding to pull her through. And when Sherlock came back, she was so angry she hauled off and slapped him any number of times,” Mycroft said, remembering, before turning thoughtful. 

“He just let her, you know,” he continued. “He stood there and let her hit him until she was exhausted. I was there that day. I went with him to see her because he said he needed the moral support. I’ll never forget it. And then Addison punched him as well. Knocked him down. It was…horrible to witness, John, especially after all he’d been through in those two lonely years, breaking up Moriarty’s crime syndicate. But he never uttered a sound. Just picked himself up and we went home.”

John nodded, understanding. That was his experience, too; Sherlock never fought back or even tried to defend himself when his friends attacked him. He accepted the blows as if he deserved them. John suddenly felt an unpleasant stab of shame over his own behavior towards his best friend, even if he thought Sherlock had deserved it at the time. Maybe he had some atoning to do. “God, Mycroft, this is terrible,” John stated. “Especially after what happened last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“He went over to see Molly Hooper. His first time seeing her since that phone call we witnessed at Sherrinford last week. I guess he decided that he was ready to love again. Willing to take that risk. I guess that speaks to how much he loves her, Molly, I mean, if he was willing to try again after being hurt so badly with Sarah…Jesus, Mycroft, this all makes much more sense now. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“What happened last night?” Mycroft repeated sharply, an edge of concern creeping into his voice.

“She called him out on his manipulative behavior and told him she didn’t love him anymore. He was crushed. He came home and drank half a bottle of whiskey. I found him passed out this morning.”

“John,” Mycroft asked. “Do you ever wonder if that phone call was Eurus’ attempt at atonement?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like a type of redemption. How forcing those two to say that to each other, to make him admit his feelings for Molly was her convoluted approach to apologize for what she’d done all those years ago. She’d stripped him of not only his best friend, but of his own emotional context. She’d left half of him adrift, divided from himself.”

“I thought she was enjoying torturing him,” John said. “Remember, he called it a vivisection. She’s a sadist. And killing all those people.” He shook his head.

“Well, that, too,” Mycroft noted, dryly. “Notice, though, she didn’t kill us, did she? She just shook us up to prove her power. That shows some kind of affection, I think, warped as it is. I also think there are multiple explanations for her behaviors, just as there probably is for anyone. It’s possible she relates to that state of being split in two, like he is. And she knows she can’t love him properly with kindness and grace or whatever they’re calling it these days. She can’t relate to people in that manner, so she gave him Molly. Pushed them together in a way he couldn’t wiggle out of. Molly can love him. Could. Might have loved him. Damn.”

“You mean like giving him a gift?”

“Yes. Exactly,” Mycroft said, nodding his head. “It’s possible she was trying to pull him back to shore. I think underneath all her insanity she loves him and wants him…restored. She can’t ever be, but he can, with her help, with Molly’s love.”

John shrugged. “It’s impossible to know what goes on in a mind like hers. So twisted, so inhuman.”

“I got a glimpse of her face after he declared,” Mycroft continued. “It was…radiant. Happy. I never saw her like that before. Maybe she thought she could achieve an associated healing, a mutual healing, via her atonement and his return to wholeness. There is a notion, John, that even the most disturbed minds seek the pleasing calm of homeostasis. That there are islands of sanity floating in their madness which might be expanded. To create some…ground.”

“You’re still trying to cure her,” John noted, shaking his head. “I’m not sure that’s a wise course of action, Mycroft, she’s too far gone. Even if you’re right about her motives, it was still a terrible way to go about it, messing around with people like they’re chess pieces.”

“People are chess pieces to her. Everyone, everything is a science experiment. We’re all bugs under her microscope; we hold no more meaning than that. Except Sherlock. He’s…real, to her, I think. Ah, well. I’ve just been pondering it a lot recently,” Mycroft admitted. There was a silence, both men thinking about that broken, subterranean day when Eurus had violently exhumed and exposed her family’s dysfunction. 

“Sherrinford changed you, too,” John noted, quietly.

Mycroft nodded. “It did. She can really drive home a lesson. And now we all know more about ourselves, about our vulnerabilities and limitations, than we did before. John, do you think Molly was serious or merely momentarily and justifiably angry when she broke things off with him last night?” Mycroft queried.

“From what he told me,” John replied, “it seems she was very serious. She’s dating Greg Lestrade now.”

“Oh, no,” Mycroft said, sadly, with a shake of his head. “The worst possible outcome. You’re going to have to keep an eye on him, John. To help him, if you can.”

“What are the chances this is going to make him want to use again?”

“I’m not sure,” Mycroft replied, thinking. “But this is a very disturbing development. He’s been under an inordinate amount of stress recently. We need to prepare for the worst, especially in light of the drinking. Normally he rarely touches the stuff.”

“Well, we’ll see what happens,” John said, nodding. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Thank you for telling me, Mycroft. As upsetting as it was to hear, I’m glad you told me.”

Mycroft got up. “I hope you won’t hold this whole thing…against me, John,” he said. “I do…care for him. More than you can possibly know.” He paused, looking as close to ashamed as was possible, John noted, which increased his sympathy for the beleaguered man standing in front of him. “And please, do keep me informed of any…developments. Ring me day or night,” Mycroft added, as he left.

John sat for a few minutes, trying to absorb all that he’d just heard, trying to fit it into the picture of Sherlock he had fixed in his head. Mycroft was right – his opinion of his friend had changed. For the better, actually. The detective seemed less superhuman now, which in some ways was a disappointment, but in other ways, the knowledge of Sherlock’s lost past made his behaviors more understandable, more relatable, and the man himself, more real. 

Mycroft had given him a lot to think about, he realized. John got up, put the empty coffee cups in the sink, and headed out of the flat. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, considering, before making a left turn, crossing the little sitting room, and knocking firmly on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

***


	5. Retreat

**Retreat**

_I've never seen a night so long  
When time goes crawling by  
The moon just went behind the clouds  
To hide its face and cry  
Did you ever see a robin weep  
When leaves begin to die  
That means he's lost the will to live  
I'm so lonesome I could cry_

It was three days before Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He’d been at the hospital the entire time, glued to Sarah and Scott’s bedsides in their shared room, waiting for her to wake up and talking softly, reassuringly, to Scott. The young man was in shock and despondent over the deaths of his father and twin sister, worried he was about to become an orphan, unable to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. Sherlock did what he could to keep the teenager’s spirits up and ran interference with the doctors over their care.

Late on the first day Lady Anne Sharpe, Sarah’s elderly mother, arrived from Devon, broken-hearted and overly emotional, giving Sherlock another person to try to keep track of, to calm down, wearing him down even further. Lady Anne’s own husband, Lord Robert, was unwell, adding to her nervousness and unease. Sherlock kept finding her in the hospital chapel and had to repeatedly explain that smoking pot inside the hospital wasn’t allowed, even in the chapel and yes, even if “god made no rules about the legality of common plants.” Eventually, he took her outside and showed her a hidden spot in a nearby alley where she could safely indulge, if she absolutely had to.

He wasn’t used to this level of interaction, or even to care this much, but, remembering John’s words about kindness, he attempted to put the needs of the others ahead of his own. However, after a day in Anne’s fluttering presence, the thought of putting “something” into the endless cups of tea she insisted he fetch her, just to get her to shut up for ten minutes all together, to stop chattering mindlessly, was growing more enticing.

On the afternoon of the third day, he knew he’d have to retreat to Baker Street for a while. The little cat naps he’d attempted in various chairs in the waiting room or by her bedside were often cut short and not restful. His nerves were raw and aching and he was feeling ill from the lack of sleep and food. He assured them he’d be back in a little while, left the hospital, and caught a taxi home.

As he slipped his key into the lock of 221b, he was hit by a tidal wave of exhaustion. He was cold, tired beyond reckoning, and the grey damp that had been swirling through the city the past few days had coalesced into a thickening snow which seemed to infiltrate his bones. He entered the building, stamped the snow off his trainers, and was only on the second step up to his flat when Mrs. Hudson rushed out of her door, having heard him enter. 

“Sherlock!” she cried. “Where have you been? I was worried sick about you!” She eyed him critically. “Oh, dear, you look terrible!” He was pale, with circles under his eyes, looking gaunt and shivering slightly. Three days growth of beard darkened his features.

“Good to see you, too,” he managed, turning to face her. Feeling suddenly dizzy and wavering on the steps, he grabbed the railing for support and tried to appear alert. 

“You haven’t been home in three days!” she said. 

“Yes. Your mind, cracking away like always, Mrs. Hudson,” he rejoined, dryly. “Such superior powers of observation. Listen, I’d love to stay and chat but I have a number of things that require my immediate attention.” But he didn’t move, couldn’t move, wasn’t able to summon the strength to power his legs, to drag his body up the stairs. Hating to exhibit weakness in front of her but unable to help himself, he scrunched his eyes closed and let out an audible groan.

“When was the last time you ate something?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. 

He shrugged. “I…I don’t know,” he admitted. He swayed and rubbed his face. “I’ve been living off coffee from the hospital vending machines. I think I had something yesterday…” he trailed off, trying to remember.

“You can’t continue like this, Sherlock,” she lectured sternly, shaking a finger at him. “You’re not twenty years old anymore. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Just then, his legs unexpectedly gave out and he collapsed heavily on the third step. He shook his head, bewildered to find himself unable to function. “I’ll be fine,” he said, stubbornly. “I just need a bath and a bit of sleep.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Can you get up those stairs on your own? Shall I call the boys from the café to help?”

“No!” he growled. “Christ, stop fussing. I can manage.” He turned and started crawling up the stairs on his hands and knees.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re a mess,” she declared, her tone sharper than she intended. “Men! They’re all idiots,” she grumbled to herself. “I’m going to get you a sandwich,” she added in a loud voice, turning to go back into her flat. “I’ll be up in five minutes.”

He grunted an assent as he continued to haul himself upstairs.

When she entered his flat a few minutes later with a plate of food — a ham sandwich and a side of piping hot chips from Speedy’s — he was curled up sideways in his chair, his head resting on the arm, his knees tucked up, poking at his phone and frowning.

“I want you to eat all of this,” she commanded, handing him the plate. He took it and balanced it on the side of his thigh.

“Mrs. Hudson, is three dozen roses enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“For an…apology.” The word fell out of his mouth as if it burned his lips to speak it.

“Oh, no, dear. That’s wrong. Nobody but a lovesick fool would send three dozen flowers,” she responded, sitting down in John’s chair. “You send one dozen yellow roses with a nice note. That’s perfectly adequate.”

“Too late,” he said, making a few last taps on his phone before putting it down and rubbing his eyes. He yawned and tucked his hands between his thighs for warmth.

“Yellow flowers are for contrition, you know,” she added. “For expressing regret, to say you’re sorry for what you did.”

“Says who?”

“Says the language of flowers. Who are you apologizing to?”

He shrugged, too tired to try to figure out what lunatic theories she was going on about and unwilling to answer her question. “None of your business,” he muttered.

“Eat those chips before they get cold,” she instructed. “And then I’m going to draw you a bath and after that you’re going to sleep for a good long time.”

He sat up, nodding, before turning his attention to the sandwich and chips. After a hesitant start, the food started hitting his system and he began to wolf it down. “Once again, you’re a life saver, Mrs. Hudson,” he breathed with a satisfied sigh during a pause between mouthfuls. He could feel himself starting to settle, finding his ground again.

She watched him, concerned. “How is your old girlfriend, Sherlock? Lady Brayley? The one in hospital?”

“She woke up yesterday afternoon,” he answered, his mouth full. “She…hang on. How do you know about her?”

“Oh, John told me,” she said, offhandedly, with a casual flick of her wrist.

He clenched his jaw and blinked several times as he absorbed this information, trying not to start shouting because he didn’t have the energy right now and it would only make him dizzier. He finished the food and put the plate aside, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her. How much did she know? Clearly Mycroft had told John everything, and John had blabbed it all to her. Did everyone know the entire sordid story? 

With a sinking feeling, he realized they probably all knew. John could never keep a secret, and her, well, he was positive she’d already told Mrs. Turner, and by now it was all over London. But he was mostly angry at his brother for spilling the beans in the first place. He was going to give Mycroft hell — double the usual amount. “How much did John tell you?” he asked with a murderous glint in his eye.

“Pretty much all of it,” she said, lightly. “All about your crushed hopes when you were very young. Your poor, thwarted love.” He drew a breath and looked away, feeling stung and annoyed, his privacy invaded. “Such a sad story, Sherlock!” she continued, warming up. “I had a friend once, Galina Balkleevy. Russian,” she added, with a nod, as if that explained things. “Well, she wasn’t exactly my friend, more of an acquaintance, really. This was in Florida, before my husband was arrested. I didn’t see her very often, but our paths would cross. Her story was a sad one, too. Not as bad as yours, of course, but still.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and gripped the arms of the chair to stop himself from throttling her right there on the spot.

“She was a nice woman, but a bit naïve, I’d say. She married a man and they had two kids,” she blathered on. “She was still nursing the second one when she found out he had another wife and family, across town. She was so upset she got a gun and shot him! He didn’t die, only wounded, but isn’t that awful? They put her in prison for attempted murder. Well, they put him in prison, too. Bigamy,” she whispered, as if it was the worst crime ever and discounting the number of times she’d stood in this very room and heard him talking about stranglings, disembowelments, and cannibalism. “Those poor children!” she added. “I don’t really understand how you continue on when you’ve had such a dreadful shock,” she mused, “although she must have had mental problems of some kind.”

“Well,” he responded through gritted teeth. “We all reach our limits.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “I guess we do. But, you know, it’s just wrong, the way you two were treated. Next time I see your brother, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

“You should,” he encouraged, with a sly smile. “You should ring him right now and let him have it. Go all in. As a matter of fact, you should do that regularly. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Are they going to be okay?” she asked. “Her and the boy?”

He nodded. “Eventually. Of course, they’re both still in shock right now; it’s been a hellish loss. It’ll take a few months for their bodies to heal. She’s got a surgery in a few days, where they insert some kind of cement into the fractured vertebrae for…stability. It sounds dreadful,” he grimaced, his voice troubled. “She’s in a lot of pain and will have to wear a back brace for a while. Wheelchair for god knows how long. Months of physical therapy. Scott has a broken arm, lots of bruises, and is banged up, a bit. They had to remove his spleen. He’ll be fine. Longer for the…emotional healing, though.”

She clucked in sympathy. “Well, you’re doing the right thing, being with them. Except you have to take better care of yourself,” she finished, with a firm nod.

He waved off her advice. “They’re going to miss the funerals, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s terrible. I can hardly believe the horror of it, not being there to put your loved ones in their graves…” he drifted off, lost in his own thoughts, before rousing himself and continuing. “She’ll probably be in the hospital a few more weeks, and then she’s going back to Holsworthy, her childhood home, with Scott, on Lady Anne’s invitation. She said she can’t go back to Corsham, to Somerset right away, to their estate. Too painful, with the…raw memories of Addison and Beth filling the house. Well, her mother will be happy to have her back home, where she and Scott can be properly looked after and take their time getting well. It’s all too sad, Mrs. Hudson! I just wish...” He swallowed and trailed off because he realized he was too tired, his guard was down, and he was starting to blurt out everything. 

It was all going to tumble out of him — his distress, his helplessness, his sadness and guilt over Molly, his old feelings for Sarah, long repressed, which were now rising in his body. He could feel hot tears pricking behind his eyelids. In a few more minutes they’d pour forth. He shuddered, took a deep breath and tightened his emotions, growing angry at himself for being so…sentimental.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she breathed, her eyes filling with concern. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now, don’t you?”

“No more than usual,” he responded, evenly. “Except this seems to be a bit more…difficult than normal.”

“Well, that’s because you’re involved, emotionally. The only way to stay completely neutral is to not get involved at all, or not to have any emotions in the first place,” she said, with a firm nod of her head.

“You realize you’re talking nonsense, don’t you?” he responded. “That’s not possible.”

“Ha! Got you!” she grinned and pointed a finger at him. He smiled thinly and bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Speaking of getting involved, those flowers you’re sending, they’re for Molly, aren’t they?” she continued. “John said you made her angry. Something about a phone call? She’s so sweet and kind. That really wasn’t very good, was it, Sherlock?” she added, with a disapproving shake of her head.

This revelation was the last straw and hit him solidly in the gut. She knew about Molly, too? “Christ! Am I to have no privacy at all?” he shouted, exasperated. He groaned and slid down in his chair, muttering sarcastically under his breath. “Why don’t you just take out an advert in the paper? Start an Instagram account! Put it on Twitter! The private life of Sherlock Holmes! Just spread my emotional life around for everyone to consume!”

“You don’t have to be so ridiculous,” she said, standing up. “You’re overtired and you’re being irrational. Give me that plate.” She held out her hand and he passed it over.

He glared at her. “Me? Irrational? Christ, if you weren’t my housekeeper…” he threatened, making strangling motions with his hands.

“I’m not,” she said, flatly. “Shall I run that bath for you now?”

He nodded, too exhausted to argue anymore. “Mrs. Hudson, if I’m not up in four hours, will you please come wake me? I must get back to King’s College.”

She nodded solemnly, having absolutely no intention of doing that. He needed to sleep for at least twelve hours, she reckoned. Sixteen would be better and she’d deal with his inevitable temper tantrum later.

Fifteen minutes later he was soaking in the tub, relaxing in the hot water, enjoying the lavender bubble bath she’d added. He drew a deep, calming breath whilst she hovered around just outside the door. “I put some clean pajamas on the vanity,” she called.

“Fine!” he shouted. “Go away!”

She went into the kitchen, rinsed out a few mugs, wiped down the counters and put some things away. “Make some splashy sounds!” she yelled. “I need to know you haven’t fallen asleep, slipped under and drowned.”

“Christ, I’m perfectly capable of bathing without dying!” he hollered back. “Come back in four hours!”

“Suit yourself,” she said, heading out the door. “But you’ll be sorry if you die!”

Sherlock chuckled; she was really a piece of work. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the curve of the tub, letting the hot, scented water dissolve his tensions and relax his tired muscles.

Five minutes later his eyes snapped open. He was almost asleep, sinking down into the water. “Jesus, I am going to drown,” he muttered. The last thing he wanted was to prove Mrs. Hudson right about anything. He pulled the plug, dried himself off, put on the pajamas and crawled into his soft, waiting bed but there seemed to be something wrong with it. For the first time in his life, his bed felt too big, too vast, too lonely. It seemed as if someone else should be there, sharing it with him. His chest began to ache in an unfamiliar way.

He curled his arms around his pillow, expecting to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, but for a time he tossed and turned, troubled by hazy images of two winged creatures beating currents around his head, brushing his cheek with their enormous, argent wings. 

Raven haired, with luminous silver eyes, they were strangely beautiful and yet terrible to behold, in the way only supernatural creatures are. They sang to him in swift golden voices, melodies that pushed and pulled the air around him, songs of desire and despair, making him ache restlessly and yearn for something he couldn’t quite reach. He moaned in his half-sleep, desperately wanting some peace, for an end to their ceaseless, shimmering pressure. Finally they dissipated, drifting away into the snow laden clouds and he settled down, falling into a fathomless, hallowed sleep.

***


	6. Stand by Me

(Trigger warning here towards the end: talk of domestic abuse and violence. You’ll see it coming in plenty of time.)

**Stand by Me**

_When the night has come, and the way is dark,  
And that moon is the only light you see.  
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid  
Just as long as you come and stand by me.  
If the sky that we look upon  
Should tumble and fall  
And the mountains should crumble to the sea  
I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me_  
  


Sherlock spent the next few days concentrating on the most important tasks: going to hospital to keep Sarah and Scott company, trying to stop Lady Anne from indulging in her herbal soothers in public and possibly getting arrested, and making sure they were getting the best care possible. Sarah was very weak and in a lot of pain; the doctors were concerned about possible paralysis. Scott was beside himself with worry, frequently panicking, and Sherlock spent a great deal of time comforting him, distracting him, and trying to allay his frightened doubts. The few clients that showed up at Baker Street when he was at home he turned away.

At night he worked on cleaning up the flat but he soon came to realize the task was too big for him to be chipping away at it piecemeal as he was. Through his discussions with Lady Anne, it was increasingly looking as though he might be going to Devon in a few weeks for an extended period of time to help with Sarah’s aftercare, and he didn’t want to leave Mrs. Hudson to deal with the mess. He rang Mycroft and accepted his offer to arrange for and pay for the needed renovations. Workmen descended almost instantly and within a week the wreckage was cleared, the flat was scrubbed, and a fresh coat of paint was applied.

He hadn’t received Molly’s acknowledgement of his flowers or seen her at all. Once he swung by Bart’s, hesitating outside the building, but chickened out at the last minute, not able to garner the nerve to face her quite yet. Turning away, he wondered how he could have no compunction about charging into the maw of death to chase a serial killer but couldn’t muster the courage to face the wrath of a tiny brunette. He missed her more than he could say and the ache in his chest over this fact was becoming a disturbingly familiar companion.

A few more days went by. Finally remembering his own adage that work was the best antidote to sorrow, he started taking clients again. His current one was sitting in the straight-backed chair yammering away as he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. He was barely listening until she got to the point.

“I think my husband’s having an affair.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, turned sharply towards the woman sitting in his client’s chair, and opened his mouth to snarl “yes!” prior to kicking her out, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the sad, resolute set of her shoulders, or the nervous flicker in her tired blue eyes, or perhaps it was the way her fingers were twisting together in her lap that gave him pause. Maybe it was John’s voice, echoing in his mind. _Is it helpful? Is it kind?_ He closed his mouth, took a deep breath, and gave her a second look.

She tended towards plumpness and had never been beautiful, not even in her youth. It was a stretch to call her pretty. Her ashy blonde hair was pulled back into a thick, tight bun at the nape of her neck, not the kindest of hairstyles for the shape of her face, he noted. Her eyes were rather too large, her nose a little blunt, and the beginnings of a double chin ruined the line of her jaw. But her face was kindly and her smile warm.

She was nearing the back end of forty, had four kids (obvious, clearly, from her cheap birthstone necklace), and the fingers on her left hand were marked with the thin, pale stripes of old knife wounds. Her right hand and forearm carried white burn scars from splashes of hot oil, and her shoes were sturdy and sensible, as befits someone who’s on her feet all day. Her clothes were simple, worn and serviceable; the gay frivolity of fashion a long, unfathomable distance from the realities of her workaday life. She was a cook, then. A line cook in some low end, greasy, fish and chips shop. Tough job, long hours, lousy pay. 

She was yet another example of the working poor that filled the teeming days of London, barely scraping by, struggling against an overwhelming tide of inadequate education and encroaching poverty. And she was about to hand over the better part of a week’s pay for him to destroy her world with his quick, careless deduction. He bit his lip and frowned, trying to figure out what to say.

“I…just want to know for sure,” she continued, looking at the floor. “It’s not like this would be the first time. I mean, I know I’m not much to look at, but I do the best I can. Becky, she’s my youngest, and well, she has some problems, you know. She’s been fighting at school. And he’s not helping. He spends his days down at the local playing eightball. Well, losing at it.” She snorted inelegantly and shrugged. 

“Which pub?” he asked.

“Cohan’s, usually, at Sidney and Stepney Way, but most evenings he goes on a crawl with a few of his mates,” she replied, taking a grainy photo out of her purse and passing it to him. “This is himself. My Walter. He isn’t much to look at either,” she admitted, “but he’s what I’ve got. I did love him, a long time ago.” She fell silent for a while before quietly adding, “sometimes, I still do. He’s the father of my children, after all.” She risked a glance from beneath her brows at the tall, handsome, silent man standing in front of her, acutely aware of the differences in their class and comportment.

Sherlock studied the photo. A short, squat man with a pug nose grinned at the camera, his arm around his wife. 

_Christ,_ his brain said. _The things people will settle for when they’re desperate._

He handed it back to her and watched her tuck it carefully, almost fondly, away.

“It’s not like I’d divorce him anyway,” she explained. “I need his check to keep us afloat. It covers the rent. You know how it is,” she said, with a firm nod. “But, even so. I want to know for sure if he’s cheating on me. I just want to know.” She lifted her chin and met his eye, and that small gesture of hope and defiance changed the cold, bored expression he normally wore.

He nodded, not knowing at all how it was. He had absolutely nothing in common with her. He’d never had a moment of want, never struggled to put food on the table or pay the landlord, or experienced difficulties in raising recalcitrant children. He’d never been cheated on. Or had he? Could he count Molly’s dalliance with Lestrade as cheating? Not technically, he supposed, but at the same time he was suddenly struck how the two of them, the posh detective and the careworn wife, shared a certain…something. 

Was this poor woman sitting in front of him, bravely baring her worries and dread expectation to a total stranger experiencing the same gut wrenching agony as he? He realized with a shock that they were connected on a surprisingly intimate level; they both harbored a secret, bitter fear of being discarded by love, of being deemed unworthy, of spending the rest of their days drowning in loneliness. 

All in a rush the importance of human emotions, of the intimacy he’d long disdained became startlingly clear. In this random moment, in this room, in this split second, all the horrible trials and yearning dreams of humanity came crashing in on him, and any differences between the two of them simply melted away. He felt slightly dizzy and noticed a deepening ache in his chest.

He knelt before her, covered her hands with his, and looked her steadily in the eye. “Mrs. Krueger, I want you to go home,” he instructed, softly. He took a deep breath. “Don’t worry. Your husband is not having an affair.” The lie shook him a bit but it was for the best and he thought it was, in the truest meaning of John’s words, the kindest response. By the end of the day, he told himself, her husband wouldn’t be cheating on her anymore.

With this acknowledgement that her worst fears were unfounded, she breathed a tremulous sigh of relief and fumbled for her purse, her hands shaking. “How much do I owe you?” she asked. She took out a battered bank envelope containing a bit of cash. His stomach flipped over; she didn’t even own a wallet.

He shook his head and pushed the envelope back at her. “I can’t charge you for doing nothing, can I?” he said, with a smile. 

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” she murmured, gratefully. “You’re too good. Are you sure? I can pay, you know. I’ve saved it up.”

“Absolutely. I don’t want your money. I want you to go home, take a nice hot bath, and have your tea. Everything will be better tomorrow. Alright?” He helped her rise and gently escorted her to the door. After waiting exactly two minutes he grabbed his Belstaff and followed her out the door to her East End neighborhood. 

It took him less than an hour to find the right pub. He peered in through the window, checking the layout and spotting Walter Krueger near the back. He was with a friend, playing pool. Walter looked just as he’d expected, a short, balding, middle-aged man, none too bright. Despite his obvious stupidity, a superior smugness hung about him which made Sherlock’s blood boil. He knew this type well — brash and blustery, the kind of man who bullied the weak and helpless but folded quickly when threatened.

 _Don’t kill him,_ his brain instructed. _Don’t put him in hospital._

“I won’t,” Sherlock chuckled, shaking out his arms and trotting in place outside the building for a few steps to increase his adrenaline level. “But this is going to be fun.”

He took a deep breath, popped his coat collar up, and burst into the pub. Grabbing a wooden pool cue off the wall, he snapped it in half over his thigh and made a beeline for the two men standing around an eightball table in the back, laughing at some private joke. Advancing on them, he grabbed the unsuspecting Walter by his shirt collar, shoving him backwards rapidly and slamming him against the wall, pinning him there by his left forearm firmly planted across the base of his neck. 

“Oi!” the other man cried. “What ‘er you doing, mate?”

Sherlock half turned towards the man, brandishing the splintery, broken end of the cue in his direction. “Back off! Unless you want a piece of this, too,” he snarled. He used the pool cue to cut through the air like a broadsword, just missing cracking the man’s head open by a carefully calculated centimeter.

The man ducked, put his hands up and took two steps back. “I, uh, don’t know him,” he stammered, pointing at the victim. “We, erm, just met. I…I don’t want any trouble.” He turned and slunk away until it was safe for him to run out the door.

Walter gurgled and turned red, clawing at Sherlock’s arm. Pulling him forward by his shirt front, Sherlock slammed him into the wall again. He pressed the pool cue across Walter’s chest, leaning into it to keep him in place. “Now you listen to me, you festering gob of pig shite,” he growled, towering over him. “You’ve been neglecting your wife. You’re going to start treating her better or you won’t live to see the end of the week. Do you understand?” 

Walter nodded, terrified, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was going to come to his rescue. He was quickly disappointed. But because he was a regular at this pub a few people drifted over, drawn by the commotion, pints in hand, to watch the braggadocios Mr. Krueger getting his comeuppance. There was some laughter and a few bets on whether Walter was going to piss himself or not. The bartender, smiling slightly, concentrated on wiping down an invisible stubborn spot on his counter. He shook his head at the bouncer sitting at the end of the bar who looked as if he might like to get involved.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Sherlock continued, his voice deep and deadly. “You’re going to help out at home. You’re going to clean and cook and take care of your wife like a man should. You’re going to watch over your children, teach them manners. You’re going to help Becky. And most importantly, you’re going to stop fucking around. Literally. Stop. Fucking. Around.” Sherlock punctuated each word with another firm slam against the wall. “Show your wife some respect. No more affairs or I’ll rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.” He shook him, hard, until Walter’s head bobbled. “Understand?”

Walter, now as pale as death, nodded, even more terrified. 

“I know everything about you, Walter,” Sherlock threatened. “Where you live, where you work, who your friends are. I’m going to keep my eye on you. Nothing you do will ever escape my notice. If you fuck this up, even once, I’m going to pay you another visit. And next time I won’t be so gentlemanly about it. Have I been clear?”

Walter nodded, shaking all over. 

“I didn’t hear you,” Sherlock hissed, throwing the pool cue away and raising his fist. “Have I been clear?”

“Y…yes,” Walter squeaked, his voice cracking. “Very…clear.”

“Good,” Sherlock snapped. “I’ll be watching you. Now, you’re going to leave this place, go across the street to that florist, buy the largest, most expensive bunch of flowers they have, and then go home and apologize to your wife for being such a doaty, weak-arsed little fuckhead.” With one last shove against the wall, he released Walter and turned away, heading for the exit. Walter’s knees buckled and he sank down onto the floor. Smoothing his collar down and trying not to grin, Sherlock sauntered out the door, his coat billowing behind him.

 _Feel better?_ his brain inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “Much better. You know, this do-gooding is invigorating. Makes one feel rather virtuous.” Smiling, feeling pleased with himself, he flagged down a cab and asked the driver to take him to King’s College Hospital. His sweet Sarah was due a visit.

*

Five days later John and Sherlock were at Baker Street listening to a client — a meek young woman in her mid-twenties — when those same seven words came up again.

“I think my husband’s having an affair,” Mrs. Burton said. She was rather pretty, with expressive large blue eyes, wore her brown hair cut short in a pageboy and was continually tucking it behind her ear when it fell forward. Married about six months, Sherlock reckoned, she fiddled with her cheap wedding band too much, sliding it off and back onto her finger. 

_State of her marriage, right there,_ his brain noted. _Ambivalent._

She was clearly poor and uneducated, however her modest floral dress was neatly mended in a few places indicating she took a certain pride in her appearance. She held her thin frame straight and steady but there was an underlying nervousness to her demeanor that piqued Sherlock’s interest. She spoke softly and averted her eyes, keeping them fixed on her hands, anxiously weaving her fingers together over her plastic pocketbook.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed upon hearing those words as he observed her from his place on the sofa next to John. He’d chosen this seat instead of his chair, turning the client chair around from its usual position so her back was to the fireplace. He was listening intently and then came the ringer, the name he’d been expecting.

“Greta, Mrs. Krueger I mean,” she explained, “told me this morning that you did such a wonder with her husband, he’s so nice and attentive now, even helps out around the flat, and I thought maybe you could help with mine. She and I live in the same council block,” she added.

“Which pub?” Sherlock asked, cutting to the chase and hoping these requests from Mrs. Krueger’s friends weren’t going to become a common occurrence.

“Sorry?” she returned.

“Which pub does your husband frequent?”

“He doesn’t frequent a pub,” she said, confused.

“Where is he, then, during the day?” Sherlock pressed.

“Oh. Well, his best mate Larry is the caretaker at Hackney Methodist. It’s on Mare Street.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know it.”

“Larry runs a...should I be telling you this?” She paused, glancing between the two of them. “You won’t involve the police, will you? I don’t want my husband to get in trouble, to be arrested.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not unless he’s selling arms to terrorists,” he joked. 

She seemed relieved. “No, it’s not that. Larry runs a poker game there, in the basement, each morning when Reverend Letby is out making calls. And a few times a week during the evenings, too. They can last all night. Hours and hours! I wouldn’t mind if it was just a few pounds here and there, but he’s losing hundreds! We can’t afford it. If he keeps it up I know we’ll be evicted. I’ve asked him to stop but he keeps saying his luck will change. He’s been saying that for almost two years now, even before we were married. Every month it’s a struggle for the rent.” Her brow furrowed.

“Wait,” John interjected. “This is a gambling problem? You said he was having an affair,” he pointed out, unsure why Sherlock was interested in this mundane case. It was a two, tops; there was nothing exciting or mysterious about it. Normally the detective would have kicked her out by now, complained of boredom, and bemoaned the diminishing activity of the elite criminal class. 

“Well, Greta told me that’s what she said and it got your attention, so I thought...” she trailed off and studied her hands again.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Burton,” Sherlock said, reassuringly. “You want him to stop gambling, yes?” She nodded. “And that’s all? He’s not…fooling around on you?

“No,” she whispered, blushing. 

“You’re positive?” Sherlock verified. She nodded but wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t, meet his eye.

“Where does he get the money to gamble?” John queried.

She shrugged and shook her head, growing strangely blank as the questions came. Sherlock watched her, his perceptive eyes scanning her for additional information. She seemed to be disassociating.

“Do you have a job?” John asked.

She shook her head. “He doesn’t like me working.”

“Does he have a job?” John persevered.

She nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s only part time at night, but he says it pays well. He came home with a new gold ring early last week. A man’s ring, set with a diamond. He wore it for five days and then it disappeared. He said he gave it to Larry to pay his poker tab. I don’t know where he works, though. He’s never told me. I asked him once but he…well, he didn’t say.”

“He’s stealing personal property and pawning the goods,” Sherlock told John. “Or most likely he’s part of a larger racket. Petty larceny, breaking and entering, burglary.” He leaned back and looked at her with concern. There was something else bothering her; he could sense it. Something unspoken, something too dreadful to utter. She was holding back, sitting on a secret she didn’t want to come out. He decided to stir the pot. “Where did that bruise on your wrist come from?” he asked, pointing at it.

“Oh,” she replied, covering it with her hand and shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “I bashed it on the cast iron skillet a few days ago. On…on the handle.”

“How about the large bruise on the side of your leg?” he queried. “Just above your knee. The one you keep adjusting your hem to cover? Is that from the skillet too?”

“I’m kind of clumsy,” she replied. “I hit my leg on a…table. Yes. The corner of the coffee table.”

“Awfully tall coffee table,” he remarked. “You know, it looks like maybe someone kicked you there. And those bruises on your throat, those finger marks you’ve hidden with makeup,” he continued. “Those didn’t come from the skillet, or the coffee table, or an open door, or the edge of the kitchen counter, did they?” He sat forward. “Mrs. Burton, your husband is abusing you. He beats you, doesn’t he?” 

She didn’t answer. Instead, she started to tremble and slid one hand under her thigh to stop it from shaking. Her other hand spread over her abdomen as she bowed her head, withdrawing from his scrutiny. 

Sherlock’s heart sank and an expression came over his face that John had never seen before, a mixture of pity and fury. “Mrs. Burton, if you want me to help you I need you to be honest with me,” Sherlock said, his voice soft and gentle. She had become still and quiet, clearly frozen in shame and fear, a defensive behavior he’d often seen in victims of physical abuse. “Has he struck you?”

She shook her head adamantly. 

“Mrs. Burton. Alice,” Sherlock said, evenly, calmly, carefully. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. Just nod if it’s true.” He held his breath in anticipation, waiting on her to make any movement. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, drawing out in slow motion.

She didn’t move a muscle for the longest time. Then, she gave the smallest of nods, barely perceptible, still not meeting his eye. “It’s for my own good, he says,” she admitted in a low voice. 

“Does he drink?” Sherlock asked. She dipped her head, once. “Does it happen more often when he’s drunk?” She nodded again and bit her bottom lip.

“How many times?” John demanded, growing angry. Sherlock shook his head fiercely at him, trying to indicate that any strong display of emotion would only terrify her more. They were balanced on a knife’s edge now, the tension blunt and palpable in the room. If they spooked her in her current condition she’d probably make a break for it, run out the door, and they’d never see her again.

“Only when I deserve it,” she mumbled, barely audible, sinking further into herself like a turtle pulling into its shell.

“Mrs. Burton,” Sherlock said, his eyes flashing but his voice low and compassionate, “what could a mild woman like yourself possibly have done that would warrant such treatment?”

“I need to be more accommodating, he says. Stop nagging him,” she said. “I try to, honestly I do, but when he gambles away the rent I can’t help it. Last month I had to sell my mother’s wedding ring to pay the landlord. It was the last thing I had of hers. I have to say something to him, don’t I? Please, Mr. Holmes, don’t I have to say something?”

“You need him to stop gambling because you need the money for the baby you’re carrying,” Sherlock declared. John paled and his eyes widened. “And you don’t want to involve the police because he’ll beat you even harder for doing that.”

Shaking, she burst into tears. “Can…can you help me, Mr. Holmes? Can you get him to stop? Gambling, I mean? I’ll be okay if he stops gambling. He won’t do it to the baby. I’m sure he won’t.” She fell into a nervous silence and drew a quivering breath. “It…it doesn’t last long,” she explained, wiping away her tears. “He’s never broken a bone or anything. Just bruises, just a slap or two.”

“Or a kick or a punch,” Sherlock added. “Or something even more unspeakable.”

“He’s very sorry afterwards,” she said, as if that made it okay, not responding to his innuendo.

“They always are,” John muttered, flatly, getting up and passing her a box of tissues. “And then it escalates.”

“John,” Sherlock said, quietly, keeping an eye on her, “will you please look up the address of a women’s shelter?”

John nodded and pulled out his phone. “I know which one,” he replied. “It’s the Abused Women’s Centre of Greater London. They’re very good, know exactly what to do in cases like this. I’ll ring them.”

She bolted off her chair and started towards the door, but Sherlock, quicker than she with his long legs and expecting this reaction, sprang off the sofa, got in front of her and blocked her way. “Let me go!” she wailed, trying to dart around him as he stepped back and forth, his arms wide, attempting to stop her flight without touching her. “This isn’t what I want! I have to go! I shouldn’t have told you! He’ll kill me!”

Sherlock held up both hands, palms out, and took a step back until he was standing directly in the doorway, preventing any further action on her part. “Mrs. Burton,” he said, his voice low, calm, and sincere, barely above a whisper. “You’re being tremendously brave; it took a great deal of courage for you to come here today. You need my assistance and I want to help you. Please, will you let me help you?”

She stood there stiffly, clutching her pocketbook against her chest, her head high, but she made no more movement towards the exit.

“Will you sit down?” Sherlock pleaded. “You’re not going back to him. Not ever. You have to think of your baby now.”

“He won’t hurt her,” she said with assurance, putting her hand on her stomach. 

“I beg to differ. Of course he will,” he said, appealing to her common sense. “Look how he treats you. If he’s willing to abuse a gentle young woman like yourself, a crying, colicky baby won’t stop him if he’s in a rage, will it? You know this, don’t you?”

She relaxed a tiny bit and a frown creased her brow. “Are you sure?” she asked, desperately hoping for a different answer.

“I know you feel boxed in,” he said, soothingly. “Every woman in your situation feels that. He probably tells you that you can’t leave him, that he’ll find you and drag you back. But you do have options. There are people, experts in these kind of situations, who can help you.”

She shook her head. “He’s not…that bad,” she pronounced.

“Mrs. Burton,” he explained, slowly, so she could absorb what he was saying. “Your husband is a criminal. He steals and lies. He drinks and beats you. He choked you. He’ll beat the baby, too. Dr. Watson is correct — his behavior will escalate. It’s highly likely he may do you both a permanent injury. He may even do worse. You said it yourself; he’ll kill you.” He stepped forward and quietly swung the door shut behind him.

“I said that?” she asked, not remembering what she’d blurted out in her blind, mad scramble to get away.

He nodded. “You did. You already know the truth, Mrs. Burton, even though you think it would be easier to deny it and allow his behavior to continue. But I can’t let you suffer through that, can I? What kind of a person would I be, to let you go home to that?”

She stood there thinking, chewing on her lower lip for a full minute before speaking. “I lied,” she confessed. “He broke my finger once.” She held up her right hand to show him a crooked forefinger. “Grabbed my wrist and bent my finger back until it snapped. He said it was to teach me a lesson, but I never knew what for. Then he wouldn’t let me go to hospital, so I taped it up and it healed like this.” She stared at it as if she was seeing it for the first time.

“Jesus,” Sherlock breathed, shaking his head. 

She considered his advice. “Is this…the only way?” she asked, finally meeting his eye.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s the only way. I have to make sure you’ll be safe,” he went on, giving her a gentle smile. “Now, let’s sit down and I’ll make you a nice, hot cuppa whilst Dr. Watson works out what to do with the shelter. Then, when you’re feeling more settled and when you’re ready, we can take you there in a taxi. They’ll help you, take care of you and your baby, and you won’t have to concern yourself about your husband ever again. I’m afraid, though, that I’m going to have to break my promise to you about not ringing the police. Your husband deserves to be put in prison for a long time, considering all he’s done.”

He’d been slowly moving his hand towards her elbow whilst he talked, and finally, he made contact. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the built-up tension flowing out of her. He gently led her to the sofa where she sank down with a sigh and buried her face in her hands. Whilst she wasn’t looking, he slid £300 into her pocketbook before getting up and flicking on the kettle.

“Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?” he called from the kitchen as John tapped in the phone number to the shelter.

“Lapsang Souchong, please,” she said, looking up. “I’ve never tried it before.”

***


	7. A Small Body of Misunderstanding

**A Small Body of Misunderstanding**

_Those happy hours I spent with you  
That lovely afterglow  
Most of all, I miss you so  
Your sweet caresses, each rendezvous  
Your voice so soft and low  
Most of all, I miss you so  
I'll always love you and want you too  
How much you'll never know  
Most of all, I miss you so_

  


—one week later—

Molly Hooper put her scalpel down and rubbed her blurry eyes. Her thoughts wouldn’t stay under control and her hands were trembling, so she walked back and forth by the table for a few minutes, shaking them out and trying to regain her focus before returning her attention to the body on her slab. She looked up as Mike Stamford came in the door, followed by another specialist, Tim Betton, who was already gowned and prepped.

“I can do this, Mike,” she stated, as they came up to her side. “It’s just a bit…difficult.”

“I know you can,” he responded, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. “But I thought Tim might be able to help you out. How’s it going?”

“I’ve just extracted the brain,” she said. “There doesn’t appear to be any bruising or other signs — yet. I think the real test in this case is going to be after we soak the spinal column and can get to the nerve roots.” Saying this out loud was what undid her. Her stomach twisted and tears welled up in her eyes. “He’s just so tiny,” she managed, rubbing her nose with her wrist, her voice quavering. “Not quite six months. Poor little guy.”

“See?” Mike pointed out. “This is too hard for you.” 

He wasn’t being harsh or judgmental, she realized, nor was he questioning her skills; he was calmly stating a fact. But part of her wanted to see this job through; she felt she owed it to the baby under her knife. She shook her head fiercely, bit back her tears, and picked up her scalpel again. “I can do it,” she repeated, firmly, more to herself than to them.

“I know you _can_ , Molly,” Mike said, again. “I just don’t want you to. Did I tell ever you about my first shaken baby case? I was a mess for weeks. Every night when I got home and looked at my own little Charles I burst into tears. My wife made me go talk to someone. I think they’re the hardest thing we have to do. Listen, you’ve done a great job,” he continued, reaching over and slowly taking the scalpel out of her hand. “But I don’t want you to be traumatized by this. Tim’s done a number of them — he can take over for you.”

She considered for a few moments before nodding and stepping away. “Yes, you’re right of course. I am affected, and I don’t want my…state of mind to get in the way of the work. I can’t have any mistakes because this baby deserves the best we can give him. Thanks,” she told them. “And please be extra careful with him. If this really is what the police suspect, we need to be super conscientious with the evidence.” 

“Yes, of course, Molly,” Tim said, stepping up to the table. “I’ll make you proud — I’ll be very thorough and meticulous. And maybe you can help me later with the lab work? Would that be okay? We can use all that new equipment that just arrived!”

“Where did all that come from, anyway?” she asked. “New ‘scopes, GCMS, centrifuge, X-ray, incubator, not to mention all the glassware. It must have cost a fortune. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s going to make our lives so much easier.”

“Anonymous donor,” Mike supplied. “We were short on beakers anyway. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you, Molly?”

“Uh, the beakers? N-no,” she stammered. “I guess a number of them…got broken somehow.”

“No, I meant about the new equipment. Anyone you know?” There was a twinkle in Mike’s eye.

“Me?” She snorted. “Not likely. I don’t know any rich people.”

“Well, there’s a betting pool on who it was, so feel free to join in,” Tim said. “Mike’s collecting. What’s it up to now?”

“Twelve hundred and thirty two pounds,” Mike responded. “I’ve got my money on Mrs. Dalrympole.”

“Nah,” Molly answered, shaking her head. “She’s a climber. If it was her, she’d want everyone to know it. She never makes anonymous donations.”

“Mine’s on Sherlock,” Tim said. Molly stared at him as if he was out of his mind whilst Mike choked back a laugh. “No, really,” Tim continued. “He’d do it just to impress you, Molly.”

“He wouldn’t!” she exclaimed. “He’s…not like that. He doesn’t care about impressing anyone.”

Mike and Tim exchanged a sly glance. “Okay,” Tim said, shaking his head. “But I’ve seen him looking at you, over the years. He’s besotted. And who can blame him?” He winked at her.

“Can we change the subject, please?” she asked, blushing. 

“Sure,” Tim responded, evenly. “Get along now, Molly, and take care of yourself. I’ll take over from here.”

“Take tomorrow, too, if you like,” Mike added. “You need it.”

She nodded, gave Tim a wavering smile, squeezed Mike’s arm in thanks, and left the morgue. By the time she washed up, collected her stuff from her locker and left the hospital it was late afternoon and had grown dark. It smelled like rain. A chill wind chased her down the street, and a fine mist began to cloud the air as she passed her favorite shoe store on the way to the tube. There was a gorgeous pair of lavender suede pumps in the window, so she nipped in and bought them, telling herself she needed the retail therapy tonight. They were wildly expensive but at this point she didn’t much care; she rarely treated herself anyway, she rationalized.

She felt exhausted, wanting only to get home, pour herself a nice glass of wine, snuggle with Toby, and compartmentalize that autopsy into a less sensitive portion of her brain. As she exited the tube station she felt a strange, prickling sensation crawling up her back. She shivered with the distinct impression she was being followed. Taking a deep breath she turned around and peered down the street but didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious. There was another professional woman hurrying along the pavement, a scruffy man in a green jacket, a gaggle of teenagers, a mother with two young children, and professional men with briefcases heading to late business meetings in the city. She shrugged, putting it down to her frazzled nerves and continued home, getting there moments before a cold, sheeting rain began to fall in earnest. It would probably change to snow before morning, she thought.

“Look at my new shoes, Toby,” she said, taking them out of the box and showing them to her cat. He sniffed them, then got up and started wandering about the flat, meowing. She tried them on and walked around a bit before taking them off and putting them on the coffee table so she could admire them. Heels not too tall, wonderfully soft, ridiculously comfortable, they really were the perfect colour, she told herself, feeling infused with the warm glow of good money frivolously spent. 

She sank onto the sofa with a deep sigh, too tired to move just yet. Toby came back, sat, stared at her, and meowed some more. Then he wandered off again, still talking. This went on for a good twenty minutes whilst she watched him, growing concerned. He wouldn’t let her touch him, sitting just out of reach, staring intently at her. “What? What is it? What do you need, sweet boy?” she asked, getting slightly irritated at his perseverance when all she really wanted to do was stretch out on the sofa. “I suppose I should feed you. It’s nearly your dinnertime.” 

She got up and headed towards the kitchen but before she’d even taken two steps there was a knock at the door. Groaning at the interruption, she opened it to find Sherlock standing there. He was soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his head, carrying two large takeaway bags. She heard the glassy clink of wine bottles.

“Hi,” he said, hunched up and visibly shivering. “Mind if I drip on your carpet?”

“Come in and I’ll get a towel,” she replied, going down the hall to grab a clean one from the linen closet. 

He put down the bags, shed his Belstaff, hung up his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Is Greg here?” he called. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“No, he’s staying at his own place tonight. He has to work early tomorrow,” she replied. Coming back, she motioned for him to bend over. She draped the towel over his head and started rubbing his hair dry for a few moments before stopping, letting him take over. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?” She stepped back and put her fists on her hips. She tried to make her voice sound neutral but he noticed the edge in her tone. She could tell because he paused for a split second. She winced to herself, glad he couldn’t see her expression with his face under the towel. 

He straightened up and dried the nape of his neck. “I was at Bart’s, ran into Stamford,” he explained. There was a little bit of dampness left at the base of his throat so she took the towel back and dried that spot as well as blotting some of the wet out of his shirt. She tried not to notice how incredibly sexy he looked with his rain-soaked fringe falling over his brow and the front of his white shirt sticking to his lean, toned torso.

“He told me about your case,” he continued. “I was very sorry to hear about it, Molly. That must have been difficult for you. So I reckoned you’d be tired and might like a little dinner.” He picked up the bags. “I stopped by the Dorchester.”

She nodded. “I am tired,” she admitted, tossing the towel onto the slate entryway floor. “And depressed. Today was hard. But I’m not sure I’m ready for…this,” she finished, waving a hand between them, unable to look him in the eye. Why did he have to be so damn gorgeous?

“I understand,” he said, with a small bow. “We won’t go into any of that. I respect your decision, even if I personally don’t care for it very much,” he finished, muttering the last bit to himself. 

“What have you been doing with yourself?” she asked, leaning on the arm of the sofa.

“Menacing cheating husbands,” he replied, with a sigh. “Three more this week.”

“What?”

“Clients,” he clarified. “Apparently men suck and are awful, terrible, selfish creatures.”

She laughed. “I could have told you that.”

“Well, never mind,” he shrugged. “Are you hungry? Let me do something for you, for a change, Molly. Let me take care of you a little bit. Look, I got all this great stuff at Alain Ducasse.” He grinned and held up the bags. “Three kinds of wine! You don’t want to bin all this Michelin starred food, do you?”

Thinking, she crossed her arms, worried her bottom lip, and cocked an eyebrow at him. He was being so nice, so considerate. In her exhausted condition she realized her ability to stay angry at him for past hurts was rapidly dissolving. Additionally, it was an excellent restaurant and she was hungry. “Are there scallops?” she asked.

“There _are_ scallops!” he responded. “Enormous scallops! And chateaubriand with mushrooms, and endive salad, and some chocolatey thing that looks amazing.”

“I thought you didn’t care for food,” she stated.

“Mrs. Hudson’s hardly a Michelin starred chef,” he responded, winking at her. “And I’m not working. Let’s eat.”

She sighed. “Okay, you got me,” she said, smiling a little. 

Tucking the bags under one arm, he used his free hand on the small of her back to push her ahead of him into the kitchen. She got exactly one step in before letting out a bloodcurdling scream. Turning around too quickly, she bashed into his chest. He slid the bags onto the table and instinctively put his arms around her. “Wha— oh,” he said, getting a view of the floor behind her. “It’s just a mouse, Molly. Well, no, actually. That’s a rat.”

Toby came in, sat down on the lino and meowed, showing off his work.

“It’s DEAD,” she cried, her face buried in his chest. Weirdly, some part of her brain registered that he smelled wonderful — of fresh rain and woodsy bay rum — and all she wanted at that moment was to stay locked in his comforting arms until this terrible day ended. 

“Yes, yes it is,” he agreed. “At least I sincerely hope so, considering someone has eaten half of him. There’s intestines all over the floor. Looks like miniature spaghetti,” he mused. “In red sauce.”

“Ugh!” Molly shuddered, turning pale. “Stop it! I think I’m going to be sick.”

He steered her towards a chair and pushed her into it. “Take a deep breath and don’t look at it,” he suggested, “you big, bad, pathologist. Bravest woman I know, can cut open a cadaver without blinking, yet scared of a few rodent guts,” he teased, as he tore off some kitchen roll and started cleaning up the slaughtered creature. “Ooo, it’s kind of schloopy,” he observed. 

“Sherlock! Please!” she said, clapping her hand over her mouth. “I don’t have the wherewithal for that tonight. And use the disinfecting spray under the sink on that spot, okay? It probably had the plague or something. At least now I know what Toby was going on about. How did it get in here?”

“Drain pipes,” he answered. “There’s millions of rats in the city, Molly. They can get in just about anywhere.”

“I’m never going to sleep again,” she shuddered, imagining an army of rats chewing on her hair.

“Right, all done,” he informed her a few minutes later, standing up and putting the mess in the bin. “You’re safe now. I’ll take that out when I leave.” He washed his hands and pulled a bottle of champagne from one of his bags. Popping the cork, he poured them each a generous amount and started taking plates out of her cupboard. She took two large mouthfuls. He topped up her glass, set the table and started plating their first course whilst she quietly watched him, enjoying the view of his backside and his large, elegant hands as he stood at the granite countertop, working. That white shirt did wonders for his physique, she noted, admiring the line of his shoulders and hips.

“Mmm, this champagne is delicious,” she said, taking another swig. He put the bottle on the table and she looked at the label. “Oh, my! Krug Grande Cuvée Brut,” she read. “Jesus! This is really expensive, Sherlock!”

“Not as expensive as this food was,” he countered with a grin. “Don’t worry about it, Molly. It’s my pleasure to treat you. It’s the least I can do. Just relax and enjoy it all.”

“Okay, I will,” she said gratefully, leaning back in her chair and settling in. He dimmed the lights and lit a candle, bathing the room in a warm, yellow glow. She could hear the cold rain drumming against the kitchen window, making her flat seem cozy and snug in comparison. A feeling of contentment began to spread through her.

“Now, for mademoiselle’s first course,” he said in a fake French accent, putting their plates on the table, “may I present diver scallops, seared in a kilo of artery-clogging fresh butter, with tart yuzu and served on a bed of parsnips and leeks. Would mademoiselle like white wine with her starter or continue with the champagne?” He showed her a bottle of white burgundy. 

“I’ll stick with this champagne,” she said, taking another sip. She could already feel the bubbly wine coursing through her veins. She took a deep, centering breath, finally beginning to relax. “It’s really nice.”

“Very good,” he said, sitting down and clinking his glass against hers. “Bon appetite.” They set to, and he studied her as they worked their way through the courses. Her brow was drawn together pensively, her eyes sad and downcast. “Do you want to talk about it, Molly?” he asked gently. “It might help.”

She paused before speaking. “You know, we used to think that shaken babies died because of brain injury. That their little brains got sloshed around inside their skulls and caused too much damage to the primary systems.”

“That’s not the case?” he asked, opening a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to go with their beef course and filling a fresh glass for her.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked.

“Would that work?” he asked, hopefully, adding another splash.

“Nope,” she answered, with a shake of her head. “I can hold my liquor. Anyway, a few years ago a couple of pathologists put forward a new theory that it’s all about their wobbly little necks. That shaking a child damages the developing nerves inside the cervical vertebrae which lead to the diaphragm. The baby can’t breathe. That’s what kills them, and that’s why we have to examine the spinal cord. But to expose the nerve roots is such an intensive process. It takes at least a month of soaking in formaldehyde to get to them. It’s a tricky procedure.”

“A fine, forensic description, Dr. Hooper,” he stated, evenly. “But that’s not what upset you today.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she admitted. She pushed her tenderloin around her plate, cut off a few small pieces for Toby and dropped them on the floor. He sniffed them and walked off. “Look at that, Sherlock. I guess he’s too full of delicious rat to deign to accept Michelin starred food.” 

“Singular,” he chuckled.

“I suppose I can understand getting frustrated at a colicky or whinging baby,” she continued. “But I can’t imagine getting so enraged that you shake it hard enough to kill the poor thing. Christ! Just walk away for a few minutes! Get yourself under control!” There was a pause. “It’s horrible. And, I…I couldn’t help thinking about Rosie.” 

“Yes, I thought that might be what did you in,” he said, softly, his voice deep, his chest tightening, affected by her distress. He reached over and clasped her hand, giving it a warm, tender squeeze. “It’s very upsetting,” he added, “but you’re handling it remarkably well.”

Tears welled up in her eyes but she brushed them away, refusing to let them fall. “They’re just so innocent and helpless! It’s terrible. Awful. Sometimes I hate my job.”

“It’s not really the job, though, is it?” he noted. “It’s the people who make your job necessary.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Most of the time I love what I do. Listen, erm, I didn’t mean to infer that John might do that to Rosie. He wouldn’t. He knows better. It’s the thought that someday, somehow, she’ll be hurt. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? Everyone gets hurt, eventually. Everyone gets their allotment of trauma. It’s part of being human. And it sucks. Life is cruel and unfair.”

“Yes, it can be,” he agreed, with a sad nod. “But I’m sure John will protect her as best he can. And so will you and I.” He smiled and squeezed her hand again before letting go. “And Mrs. Hudson, too, if she knew anything about anything and wasn’t half senile,” he finished with a snort.

“Sherlock, may I tell you that his — John’s — temper scares me sometimes? I was so worried after what he did to you in the morgue that day,” she trailed off, concern for him creasing her brow and widening her eyes.

“I, uh, forced him into that,” he admitted, his voice low. “On purpose, I might add. He had to break out of his grief and I reckoned it would be best if he took it out on me. He does tend to grieve with his fists. But to be honest, I deserved it. What I did at the aquarium was unforgiveable. I’d promised to protect her.” He looked away, unable to meet her eye. 

“You didn’t deserve that!” she said, hotly. “In no way did you deserve what John did to you. You weren’t responsible for…what happened to Mary.”

“You know,” he mused, “Mary left me a video, told me to go straight to hell to get John to rescue me. I thought she meant if I put myself in enough danger he’d follow me there. I didn’t realize until after it was all over that he was the one already in hell. I just followed him. I suppose I could have found a different way, not gone whole hog with the drugs, but,” he shrugged. “It was the best plan I could come up with.”

“You take too much on yourself, Sherlock,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m defending your behavior — you know how angry your drug use makes me — but you did what you had to for his benefit and at great cost to yourself.”

He shrugged again and heaved a sigh. “It is what it is. He’s forgiven me.” 

“Have you forgiven him?” she asked, pointedly.

“Of course,” he responded. “We had a very nice conversation after it was all over. On my birthday, before we met you at the cake place. We’ve patched it up. I…I wish I could do that with you,” he added, softly. “I miss you, Molly.”

“Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head, a pained expression in her eyes. “Please don’t. Not tonight. I can’t. You promised.”

“All right,” he said, dejectedly. “It’s just recently there’s been a lot of things I wish I’d done differently,” he added, looking at her intently. “But I guess it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

She nodded sadly, lost in her own thoughts, missing what he was trying to say. 

“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath, clearing his throat and their plates. “Pudding? Shall we try this chocolate thing?” 

She nodded. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” he responded, putting a small flourless chocolate cake on the table. It looked rich, fudgy, and dense, crowned with Chantilly cream and jewel-like candied orange peel. He took two brandy glasses out of the cupboard and poured them each a measure of Courvoisier. “They said at the restaurant that this goes well, underscoring the orange flavouring in the cake.”

She nodded, picked up her spoon, and took a taste. “Do you know anything about the new lab equipment at Bart’s? Oh, my god, this is delicious.” She jokingly pulled the entire cake closer to her.

He sat down, smiled indulgently and pushed it farther towards her. Leaning back, he took a sip of brandy. “Uh, no,” he responded, carelessly. “There’s new lab equipment?”

“You know there is,” she said, with a disdainful snort. “You are such a bad liar.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Molly Hooper,” he stated, reaching over and taking a spoonful of cake. “I never bought any lab equipment for Bart’s.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding, suddenly struck with the answer. “You didn’t pay for it but you ordered it. And you charged it to Mycroft, didn’t you?” He didn’t respond, looking innocently at the ceiling instead, a smug, crooked smile breaking across his face. “I knew it!” she laughed. “He’s going to be furious!”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “He owes me,” he whispered, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “For a very big mistake he made recently. Besides, he’s got more money than Croesus. Might as well spread the goodness around.”

“You are a naughty, naughty man,” she giggled. “I can just see the look on his face!”

He winked and took another sip of brandy. “You should put a hundred pounds into the betting pool,” he advised. “Feign ignorance, I’ll let it slip, and you can buy another new pair of shoes.”

“You saw those? Aren’t they the best? So pretty!” She smiled happily. He nodded, pleased to see her mood improving. He rose, collected their empty plates, and started the washing up.

There was a thoughtful silence whilst she spooned up more cake, letting the delicious chocolate slowly melt in her mouth as she watched him. It was wonderful, seeing him again, having him in her flat looking after her. He was beautifully handsome and the way he moved, even doing mundane tasks, was like a kind of poetry. He really could be so lovely at times, she mused. A wave of fondness for him washed over her. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said, softly.

“I’m glad you liked them,” he replied, putting the leftovers in her fridge. “Mrs. Hudson said three dozen were too many.” 

She laughed. “Yes, they were! Much too many. I, uh, tried to throw them away,” she admitted, “but there were so many, the yellow was perfect, and I just adore roses. They were scrummy, Sherlock. Just like this dinner. So, thank you for everything. I can’t eat another bite.” She put her spoon down, pushed what little remained of the cake away and patted her tummy contentedly.

Sherlock put the last glass in the rack to dry, wiped down the counter and tied up the bin liner. “Listen, Molly, before I go, I have something I want to tell you.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, a little uneasy.

“No, don’t worry,” he hastened to add, sitting down and lacing his fingers together on the table top. “It’s not about…us. I wanted to let you know that I’m leaving London in a couple of days. I’m going into the country for while. To Devon.”

“Oh. On a case?”

“Nope. To help take care of an old friend. She was in a bad accident and has a long recovery ahead.”

“She?” Molly knew she sounded a bit possessive and noticed a pang of envy roiling her stomach. What? Who was this person? She was positive he didn’t know any women outside London, other than his mother, much less an “old friend.” Her mouth suddenly went dry so she quickly drank the rest of her brandy to steady her nerves, uncertain why she felt so rattled. 

“Yes,” he responded. “I’ve known her a long time and she needs me now. I can’t let her down.”

“Who is she?” Molly asked, wishing she could take that tone out of her voice. 

He smiled, carefully. “Just someone I’ve known forever.”

“Forever?” she repeated. He nodded. “How long is forever?”

He held his hand a meter above the floor. “Since I was this high. I spent every summer with her and her family. We sort of grew up together.”

She thought for a minute. “You mean like a sister?”

“A bit more than that,” he replied, evenly.

“Was she your…girlfriend or something?”

He looked her steadily in the eye. “At one time,” he answered, softly. “Many years ago.”

“So, you loved her? Romantically?” He nodded again. “Do you, do you still love her?” she blurted out, holding her breath.

He hesitated and heaved a sigh. “Molly, I—“

“Never mind,” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business, is it? Will you be gone long?” Her voice was working but her mind seemed to grind to a halt at this information. _Girlfriend?_

“A number of months,” he said. “Maybe longer. It all depends on her.”

“Months? But Sherlock, won’t you miss London?”

“I’m sure I shall,” he answered, with a little shrug. “But she takes precedent. As for entertainment, maybe if I’m lucky, tiny Okehampton with its population of 5,000 might turn out to be the murder capital of the West Country,” he chuckled.

“Oh,” she said again in a small voice, trying to process this information, her fingers twisting together in her lap. He was leaving! Who was this unknown woman he was tossing everything aside for? His old _girlfriend?_ What was happening? Why had he never told her this before? Her heart unpleasantly skipped a beat and she pressed her hand to her chest to soothe it whilst her emotions churned. Jealousy rapidly morphed into resentment which flowed into anger; part of her began to seethe. Through the clouds of her confusion it registered to her he was still speaking.

“—so if you need me, Molly, for anything, anything at all, you only need to ring me. I want to be sure you know that.” 

“Why would I need you?” she said, with a quick flash of anger. She bit her lip and winced, instantly regretting it. That wasn’t what she’d meant. 

“No reason,” he said, looking away, looking hurt. “No reason at all.” There was a short, awkward silence whilst she wrestled with her emotions and tried to figure out what to say. “Well, I’ll be off. I’m…in your way,” he mumbled. Standing up, he picked up the bag of rubbish and went to get his coat.

She jumped to her feet and followed him. “Wait, Sherlock—“

“It’s okay,” he cut in, slipping into his Belstaff. “You don’t owe me one single thing. It’s the other way ‘round, isn’t it? I owe you everything. I’d do anything for you — you know that, right? And listen, I…I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry for it. You take good care of yourself, all right?” He paused for a minute, looking deeply into her eyes as if to memorize them. “Be well, Molly. Be happy,” he said, gently caressing her cheek with his fingertips. Then he leaned down, pressed a sorrowful, lingering kiss to her lips and was gone.

She stood, eyes closed, frozen to the spot for several moments, feeling the echoing touch of his hand on her skin and his good-bye kiss reverberating through her body. Dammit! she thought, throwing herself sulkily onto the sofa. She’d really screwed that up. His girlfriend? He was leaving her to go spend months with his old girlfriend? 

This information was upsetting, confusing, disorientating. When in all the years she’d known him had he ever shown the smallest interest in romantic love? Never. Not once had she ever seen him be anything but scornfully dismissive towards “sentiment.” And yet it seemed at one point in his life he’d had a lover. Someone he was still in touch with, which meant it hadn’t ended badly. 

She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Apparently, contrary to what she’d believed, he was capable of it. Of love, affection, tenderness and — oh my god — sex. Another of her assumptions about him exploded into pieces and she realized she was in for a bad night of overthinking.

Some small, mean part of her wanted him still to be upset that she’d dumped him, not jaunting off to see an old lover in Devon. She knew she was being unreasonable but the unbelievability of it made her stomach hurt. “He’s supposed to be in love with me!” she pouted. 

But, it then occurred to her, why should she be upset? After all, she had pushed him away, hadn’t she? She was the one who’d told him to go hang. And she was seeing Greg now. Nice, kind, normal Greg.

“Shit,” she muttered, hugging a pillow against her stomach and grumpily kicking at the throw wadded up on the sofa. What a mess. “Oh, Toby!” she shouted as the cat jumped onto the coffee table and horked up half a partially digested rat onto her brand new lavender suede pumps.

***


	8. New Information

**New Information**

_I sent my Soul through the Invisible,  
Some letter of that After-life to spell:  
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,  
And answer'd: I Myself am Heav'n and Hell  
― Omar Khayyam _

__

  


— a few days later, 16:30 —

“Come in, Molly,” John said, opening the door to his flat and waving her inside. Rosie squirmed in his arms, looking flushed. “Thanks for doing this on such short notice. She’s not feeling very well today so I didn’t want to dump her at the nursery and I couldn’t get out of this meeting at the clinic.”

“No problem,” Molly replied. She was a little breathless, having hurried down the street. “I always enjoy spending time with my goddaughter.”

“You okay? You look kind of spooked.”

“Yeah, erm, just a bit…I don’t know,” she replied. “I thought there was someone following me.”

John passed Rosie to her, immediately opened the door again and ran up the steps to look around. Coming back inside he shook his head. “Nobody out there except Mrs. Gupta, watering her pansies,” he said, gathering his stuff together and putting on his coat. “I gotta go — lock the door behind me, okay? I’ll only be a few hours, you’ll be fine. I’ve just given her some paracetamol so you won’t need to. She’s teething, so she’s running a little fever and likes to chew on that cold ring thing. It’s in the fridge. And maybe a juice bottle? You know, diluted? Her dinner is heating up on the hob. Try to get her to eat a few bites, will you? She’ll probably sleep soon. Sorry to dash, but…“

“I’m fine,” she replied, shooing him away. “I know what to do. Go! You’ll be late.”

He ran out and she started making clucking noises at Rosie who grumpily rubbed her eyes with her fists and fussed. She was on the verge of crying, her little legs starting to kick. Molly retrieved the teething ring from the refrigerator and gave it to her whilst fixing a juice bottle and portioning out the baby food.

“Poor little thing,” she murmured, soothingly, feeling her warm forehead and then running a pinky over her gums. She could feel the new tooth, a firm, growing bump under her exploring finger. “I know, it hurts, doesn’t it? Hard things breaking through your gums like that.” 

She put Rosie into her high chair and sat down opposite, managing to get a few spoonfuls of food into her mouth before the baby rejecting the rest of the offerings. Moving over to the sofa she rocked her for a while until Rosie had finished her bottle and resumed chewing on the teething ring. Picking up a picture book she started reading it aloud but the baby yawned and fell asleep within minutes. Molly laid down on the sofa with Rosie tucked in beside her, humming a gentle lullaby, rubbing her tummy.

It felt so nice to be cuddling such a lovely child and, not for the first time, Molly began to want one for herself. She wondered if she’d ever get married and have a family to call her own. She’d nearly been there with Tom but she’d been fooling herself with that relationship. Moving on, indeed. What a farce.

How is it possible to miss something you’ve never had? she wondered. But that’s what this feels like. A deep ache settled in her heart, underscoring her loneliness, her feelings of not measuring up somehow, of being too weird, too ghoulish, too independent, too mousey.

Turning her mind away from the self-loathing thoughts she started considering Greg’s possibilities in the marriage arena. He was fresh off a fairly rough divorce and wouldn’t likely be interested in another marriage for a while, she realized. But he was steady and thoughtful with an understated, mild sense of humor and they got along well. Plus, he was pretty good in the feathers which was certainly helpful, she smiled to herself. So there was still hope. But sometimes, he could be a a bit…boring, if she was being honest, with his football games and his pints. Usually sound asleep by 22:00 in front of the telly. None of the fire and passion of Sherlock. 

But maybe that was a good thing, she reasoned. Who wants the father of their children running around the globe chasing murderers and getting into constant trouble? Not to mention the drug use. Not a very good role model for impressionable youngsters. Anyway, she’d pretty much eliminated that avenue that night he came over and she pushed him into the friend zone. Actually, she recalled, it had been more like a drop-kick.

But there was just something so enticing about the man; it was nearly impossible to not think about him. And when she envisioned her own children they nearly always had his wild, dark curls and sea-blue eyes. Damn him, she thought, for being so gorgeous; maybe she’d made a mistake with Greg. She tried to push that unsettling thought away. Greg was fine — lovely, caring, solicitous, safe. Her mind wandering, her eyes drifted shut sleepily and she hugged Rosie a little tighter, taking comfort from her innocent sweetness. Still, she fell asleep with Sherlock’s hurt-filled eyes reproaching her.

When she woke up the first thing she saw was John sitting in the armchair opposite. His arms were crossed and he was observing her, his eyes narrow. “Oh,” she said, sitting up and carefully moving the still sleeping Rosie onto the sofa cushions. “I must have fallen asleep. I was dreaming.” She rubbed her eyes, ran a hand through her hair and blinked, trying to wake up.

“He thought you were going to die,” John said, flatly.

“What?”

“Sherlock. At Sherrinford. He thought you were going to die. He had to make you say it or she’d kill you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Didn’t Greg tell you what happened that day? I thought he had.”

“He didn’t say very much,” she admitted. “He just said Sherlock has a sister who’s clinically insane, there were some problems where she was housed, and that…that phone call had something to do with it.”

“Aren’t you curious? Do you want to hear about it or do you want to run away from that, too?” He was clearly aggravated for some reason.

“No need to get personal,” she responded, a little defensively. “But yes, I’d like to hear about it. But maybe I should put Rosie in her crib first. She’s out like a light.” He nodded. She picked the baby up and took her to the bedroom, tucked her in and quickly returned. She settled back down on the sofa. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good. Pay attention, Molly. You need to hear this. Know what he went through. For you.” His tone was sharp and blunt.

“You sound angry. Why are you upset?”

“I witnessed the entire thing,” he said. “I know the torture he endured, how making that call tore him apart and I know how unfair you’re being to him right now.”

“You were there? You heard that phone call? Oh, god!” Her colour deepened.

“Saw it. We saw it,” he corrected. “Eurus, his sister, had cameras put in your flat.”

“What? I didn’t know that!” she gasped.

“Don’t worry, they were removed. Mycroft had his team go in afterwards when you were at work. Sherlock asked everyone not to tell you. He didn’t want you to be upset. Maybe that’s why Greg was so circumspect.”

“Oh,” she breathed. 

“So, yeah, I was there. Sherlock, Mycroft and myself went to Sherrinford to find out what was going on, how she was getting out. You know she was coming to London, right, to mess with us? She pretended to be Faith Smith, Culverton’s daughter, to spend an evening with Sherlock. To get to know him, I suppose, the brother she hadn’t seen in years and to set up her future game. She was also someone I met on a bus, and she killed my therapist and took her place. Why I got her twice I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Just lucky I guess. Especially after she shot me. Fortunately it wasn’t a real gun — only a tranquilizer.”

Molly’s face drained of colour, her eyes widening. “I had no idea,” she whispered.

“He didn’t want you to know. I suppose he’ll be furious at me now, for telling you. He tries very hard to protect you,” he responded, “from all the dangers he subjects himself to, to keep others, including you — especially you — safe.

“So we went to Sherrinford. It was pretty easy getting to the island compared to the difficulties we encountered later. A simple act of piracy and we were in. Mycroft should have been an actor,” he smiled, remembering. “He made a great salty old sea dog. You’ve never heard of that place, have you?” She shook her head. “It’s literally like hell,” he continued. “A stone prison, the cells underground, dark, windowless, claustrophobic. It houses the most dangerous criminals known to the government — depraved serial killers, murderous sociopaths, sadistic cannibals. And Sherlock’s sister, one of the most dangerous of them all.”

“Jesus,” she shuddered. “How horrible.”

“She’d been there for decades, all alone with only her insanity to keep her company, being treated like a lab rat by the staff psychiatrists. Not that they could manage her.” He snorted, disdainfully. “Nobody could.

“Sherlock immediately set off into the bowels of the place to find her whilst Mycroft and I distracted the Governor. We didn’t realize our danger until it was too late. She’d taken over the whole prison, the staff, guards, everyone was in thrall to her. We were rendered unconscious and thrown into a cell, held hostage for her amusement. She had these series of tapes Moriarty had made for her, taunting us. The lights would flash, sirens go off, and there he’d be. It was disorientating, to say the least. All part of the game.”

“Jim?” She paled. She’d never gotten over her guilt about him. Maybe if she hadn’t been so weak, so lonely, hadn’t fallen prey to his kind comments on her blog, hadn’t been so eager to believe his charming lies then Sherlock never would have had to jump off Bart’s roof and spend two years away, being subject to god knows what kind of tortures. His suffering was her fault. She felt her insides start to crawl.

“Yes. Jim. Eurus and he had met, years before, thanks to Mycroft,” John continued, shaking his head. “Moriarty helped her devise a series of challenges for us. Well, for Sherlock. She was obsessed with him, had been for 30 odd years, blamed him for her loneliness, her incarceration. I still can’t decide if she wanted to save him or kill him. Not sure if she even knew. But she liked to play games and he was her prize, the key to alleviating her boredom. You know how the Holmes siblings can get when they’re bored. Someone’s likely to die.

“The first test involved the Governor and his poor wife. It ended after the Governor killed himself and she executed his wife. That’s when we knew what a cold-blooded sociopath we were dealing with, how deadly this game really was.

“The second room held a series of clues to identify one murderer out of three brothers. They were dangling on ropes outside the window. Thirty meter drop to the sea. Even though Sherlock solved it, got it right, she dropped them anyway, killing all three. Rules meant nothing to her, apparently, not even her own. She only wanted to watch her brother squirm. So, we’re up to, what, five murders now? Six if you count the therapist. And the game had only begun.”

“I…I don’t think I want to hear anymore,” she said, recoiling. “I don’t like this.”

“No, we haven’t gotten to the phone call yet,” he replied, coldly. “You need to hear about the phone call, Molly.”

“Wait,” she pleaded, stalling for time. “Can we go back a bit? Greg mentioned she’d sent an explosive to the Baker Street flat. I assumed he meant like a big firecracker.”

“No, it was a patience bomb. A grenade. She sent it in on a drone. We were lucky to escape with our lives. The flat was wrecked. It was on the news. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Oh, god!” she cried, shocked. “This is just awful, John. I had no idea. And no, I wasn’t paying attention. I have a life outside of Sherlock Holmes and all his drama.”

“Fine,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Back to Sherringford, then. We went into the third room. There was an open coffin—“

“No, stop,” she begged, clapping her hands over her ears. “You’re going too fast. This is too much. I can’t keep up. Give me a minute to catch up.”

“Did you give him an opportunity to catch up when he came to see you?” John fired back. She shook her head, sadly. “No, you didn’t. You just went ahead and crushed him, didn’t you? You didn’t have a clue what hell he’d just endured. Still don’t. So I’ll continue. We went into the third room. There was an open coffin up on trestles. The lid was leaning against the wall. Sherlock started deducing immediately but I suspect he already knew it was meant for you.

“Mycroft looked at the lid. There was an engraving on a little plate. You’ve seen those before haven’t you?” She nodded, her head down, her hands in her lap now, her fingers twisting together. “It said ‘I love you,’” he continued. “The funny thing is, and I remember this so clearly, Mycroft said ‘it’s for somebody who loves Sherlock.’ But engravings aren’t put onto coffins by the deceased, are they, Molly? They’re for the living, to send a last message to the dearly departed. The coffin was for someone Sherlock loves. It was for you.”

She raised her head to look at him, her eyes filling with tears. 

“He had three minutes to make you say it or she’d detonate the bombs she had put in your flat. He had to make you say it to save your life,” John said, his voice softer now. 

“There were bombs in my flat?” she asked, ashen. 

“No, no,” he added quickly, holding up his hand. “She was bluffing. We didn’t know that for sure until later, though. But after he made you say it, after your phone call, she cut it off, she hung up on you. But she was still torturing him. How could he be sure she hadn’t reneged on this test, too? She had on the other ones; killed them anyway, just for kicks. He probably assumed you were dead. Or at the very least that she’d managed to destroy any possible relationship between you two with that painful, humiliating call. Either way he’d lost. But he meant it, Molly. He loves you.”

“I know, in his way, he’s…fond of me—“ she began, but he interrupted, holding a finger up.

“No. Not fond. Don’t minimize. He’s loved you for years without knowing it. He can be rather dense like that. Funnily enough though, Eurus knew. But, and this is important; he didn’t need to say it twice. The second time was the realization. Listen, I know how much he tries to keep his feelings at bay, to be a machine. It’s how he handles the work he does. But he’s just a man, Molly. An extraordinary one, yes, but still just a man. You broke through his carefully crafted pretense making him say those three little words.”

“Oh, John,” she breathed, shaking her head, her tears falling freely. She wiped them away with a trembling hand. “How was I supposed to know? I thought he was playing some silly game.”

“He was playing a game, but it was hardly silly, nor of his own devising. He was shaken. You know, I’ve seen him in a lot of emotional conditions,” he mused, “but never quite like that. We were supposed to move on to the next room, to the next test, but he wouldn’t go. He was lingering there, saying goodbye to you, I think, putting the lid on the coffin. And then he lit into it. Tore it apart with his bare hands, just howling. By the time he was done it was reduced to a pile of kindling. Then he sank down against the wall, shaking all over. His hands were a mess.”

“Oh,” she said, in a small voice. “That’s what happened to them.”

“No, wait,” he paused, having a realization. “I know why he destroyed that coffin. He was trying to erase it. Obliterate what he’d said, how he feels, because it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“Oh, god,” she sighed.

He nodded. “That’s it. He doesn’t want to love you, Molly, because you’re in danger from who he is. But he can’t deny it anymore, can he? You’re in his blood now.”

“No,” she blurted out, not wanting to hear it.

“Hmm,” he mused, still thinking. “Anyway, we picked up, like soldiers, and went on,” he continued. “There was no other choice. I’ll spare you the details of the next room where he tried to kill himself instead of being forced to make a fatal choice between shooting Mycroft or myself. He was going to make himself the sacrifice but she wouldn’t have it, the loss of her playmate. Instead, hours later, we ended up at Musgrave Hall, their childhood home, where I nearly drowned chained up in a well, and Sherlock’s world was turned upside down when he realized she’d murdered his best friend when he was five. Mycroft had lied to him for decades. He’d blocked it all out. Years of it just gone from his mind.”

“Oh my god,” Molly breathed. Her stomach was hurting now.

“That’s what he’s been dealing with — death, murder and betrayal. Not to mention the sudden return of an avalanche of emotions he never wanted. And you were angry with him because he took a few days after a shattering experience to try to wrap his mind around all of it?”

“I…I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“You didn’t give him a chance to explain,” John said. “You were angry at him and for what? An embarrassing phone call? Or how once in a while he stays at your flat, takes a little advantage? That doesn’t make you special or more put-upon than anyone else. He takes advantage of everybody.”

“Now wait a minute,” she replied, miffed. “Do you know where he goes, when he disappears?”

“He has bolt holes all over London,” John shrugged.

“No, he stays with me.”

“You’re kidding,” John said. “Every time?” She nodded. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not kidding,” she explained. “He stays with me for extended periods of time and like twice a month. He pretends about the other places because it suits the dark, mysterious image of himself he’s crafted and tries to project. Why should he sleep on some cold slab in that stupid crypt when he knows he can commandeer my warm, soft bed because I’m a pushover? He just shows up, throws me out of my own bedroom, makes me cook for him, make the special coffee with the eggshells in it, do his laundry, doctor his wounds and entertain him whilst he lays about, being moody and whinging about everything. I’m supposed to put him back together, aren’t I? After he’s been out chasing murderers, getting shot at, and making all sorts of bad decisions. Well, not anymore. I won’t be treated like that. It’s not respectful.”

John sighed and fell silent for a moment, thinking. “You understand, don’t you,” he said, “that you’re a small oasis of normalcy in his crazy world? That’s why he goes to you — to take some comfort from your calm, nurturing presence. He trusts you implicitly and you help him feel sane,” he continued. “He needs that just as much as he needs the excitement of the game at other times. I realize it’s a bit…bi-polar, but that’s who he is. He couldn’t do what he does without you on the other side pulling him home.”

She grunted dismissively, unsure of the truth of his words.

“You don’t know half of what he’s done for you, Molly, how he’s kept you safe all these years,” he continued. “He’d empty his veins for you in a heartbeat, without a second thought, and you won’t give him your bed for a few days? Anyway, he probably likes sleeping there because it smells like you.”

“What?”

“After Mary died,” he said, sheepishly, “I didn’t launder the sheets for weeks because they smelled like her and I didn’t want to lose that. Putting those sheets in the wash was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It felt like burying her all over again. I know it’s strange but people do strange things when they’re stressed.”

“But I’m right there,” she said, confused. “He can smell me anytime. Wait — that sounded weird and…gross.”

“Yes, but then it’d be different, wouldn’t it? You’d be together and he wasn’t ready for that. Sleeping in your bed meant he could have you, without _having_ you.”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “I get it. You’re very astute, John. Psychologically, I mean.”

“Years of therapy,” he shrugged. “I should have an honorary degree.”

She nodded and fell silent, biting her lip, trying hard not to be swept away by guilt and stinging regret. He got up, poured them each a whiskey and handing her one of them, sank back into his chair, gazing at her thoughtfully.

“Is he gone now?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

He nodded. “He left yesterday.”

She frowned, thinking. “Do you know who this person is, that he’s gone to stay with?”

“Doesn’t he tell you anything?” he sighed.

“No!” she snapped. “He doesn’t. That’s a big part of the problem. He has this secret life, apparently, that he refuses to tell me about. It’s like pulling teeth to get anything out of him and then he answers in monosyllables. How is that conducive to a romantic relationship based on trust and sharing? Ever since I helped him jump off Bart’s he won’t let me assist him with anything dangerous anymore. Won’t even talk to me about it.”

He frowned at her. “My god, you’re dense. Maybe it’s because he realized how important you are to him, how easy it would be for one of his enemies to find you. He doesn’t want to put your life in jeopardy. Isn’t that the most reasonable, the most logical explanation?”

“Now you’re insulting me because I don’t understand what’s going on when nobody tells me anything,” she snapped. “How is that fair? And now he’s gone off to see some ex-lover I’ve never heard about before.” She took a swig of her whiskey and glared at him.

“Why should you care?” he said, snidely. “You’re dating Greg now. You turned Sherlock down when he came to you. Why shouldn’t he go find love and comfort elsewhere, if that’s what he’s doing?”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop attacking me! What happened to him isn’t my fault!” She paused, took a deep breath and collected herself, calming down. “Sometimes women come to the end of the line, John. I’ve come to mine,” she finished, sadly.

John fell silent. It was his turn to feel bad, thinking maybe he was being too hard on her. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t understand how out of the loop you are. I feel protective about him, sometimes, given the way he is and his inability to express things. He’s a good man even though sometimes he acts like a child.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, taking the last swig of her drink. Wordlessly she thrust her glass forward, demanding a refill. 

He splashed some more whiskey into both their glasses and sat back, studying her. “Do you mind if I make an observation?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “It can’t be as bad as some of the things you’ve already said.”

He grimaced. “Okay, point taken. You were in love with him for years, right? Sort of a crush, wasn’t it? And then you dumped him immediately after he made his declaration. I’ve been thinking about that, and I think the loss of that particular scenario scared you. I suppose it’s one thing to have an exciting fantasy about a darkly attractive, unattainable hero type, and quite another when a man, _the_ man suddenly loves you back,” he mused. “Quite a change in circumstance, wouldn’t you say? It must be terrifying.” He looked at her pointedly. “For both of you.”

She fidgeted, opened her mouth to speak and then closed it, her brow creasing. Squaring her shoulders she looked him in the eye. “I guess there might be a bit of truth to that,” she admitted, with only a faint hint of defensiveness. “It’s just…he…and I…” she trailed off, unable to put the myriad of thoughts whirling through her mind into words.

“Go ahead, Molly,” he urged. “If it helps at all, I think you’re pretty great. I saw the way he treated you at times. It can’t have been easy for you, over the years, bearing the brunt of his misguided scorn. But we don’t rule our hearts, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” she agreed. She paused for a minute or two, collecting her thoughts. “Women think differently than men,” she began. “John, have you ever met a woman, and within five minutes began to wonder about what it would be like to get married and have children with her?”

John blinked and an odd, confused expression settled on his face. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ve never had that thought in my life.”

“Well, women do,” she continued. “It’s wild, isn’t it? Nobody talks about it because it sounds insane. Who builds an entire life with someone in their head minutes after meeting them? But I’ve met lots of women who’ve had those exact thoughts. It’s like every man you meet has the possibility of becoming the father to your children, to be your mate for a lifetime.”

“And you had those thoughts about him,” John offered, nodding, trying to follow along.

“No! I didn’t, and that’s the point I think you were trying to make,” she said. “I never thought about it. I just _wanted_ him, in some undefinable way. He was so dashing and handsome, dangerous, even. It made him incredibly sexy and attractive.”

“I’ll take your word for that,” he said, dryly.

She flashed him a look. “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Everybody sees it. The way he storms about, his coat billowing, demanding things, bossing people around, his eyes, that voice, those cheekbones,” she growled. “He’s so pretty it makes me angry sometimes. He’s magnetic, imperious, gorgeous, like some beautiful, alien creature. And occasionally he can even be downright charming. So, yes, he is a fantasy. But then suddenly he wasn’t. I don’t think I’m explaining this very well.” She frowned.

“Keep going,” he said. “It doesn’t have to make perfect sense.”

“Oh, okay, good.” She looked relieved, downed another swig of whiskey, and took a deep breath. “So, I didn’t seriously start having those thoughts about him until after, after the phone call.” Her face started to crumple. “And then…oh, John — he didn’t measure up!” She burst into tears and started to sob, unable to continue, disappointed in herself, in her unrealistic expectations, in Sherlock’s questionable habits.

Bewildered, unsure of what to do, John started looking around for a box of facial tissues. He got up, grabbed one off the bookshelves and handed them to her. Sitting back down he took a deep pull off his drink, not sure he was up to this.

“He’s a drug addict!” she cried, taking a tissue and wiping away the tears streaming down her face. “He’s unreliable, condescending, dismissive, and frequently runs off to do dangerous things. Which you enable,” she said accusingly, blowing her nose. “My husband can’t be a drug addict. I don’t want someone like that as a father to my children. And suppose he should die? Suppose one of those evil people he chases should kill him or he gets blown up or overdoses or falls off a cliff or something? What then, John? Now I’m a widow and our children are fatherless!” She started making sad little hiccuping noises through her tears.

“You could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” John said with a shrug, trying to understand the torrent of emotion flowing out of her. “Life is uncertain. We don’t get assurances everything’s going to be strawberries and cream.”

“That’s not helpful!” she said, crying harder.

“He is who is is,” John tried. “Sometimes it’s a little…challenging. If you love someone, you have to love all of them, even the bad parts. Maybe especially the bad parts. Seriously, Molly, I don’t know what you want. I mean, this is all we’ve got, right here where we are.” He spread his hands. “We make it heaven or hell.”

“I know that!” she yelled, taking a large gulp of her drink. “But, John, I’m too young to be a widow and I’m not going to subject our children to his horrible obsession with danger.”

“You, you don’t have children,” he said, thoroughly confused.

“We might! We could! Three kids, I think. Two boys and a girl,” she sniffled. “They’re really cute. Although four would be better. Two of each. Maybe a set of twins?” she wondered.

“But you’re with Greg now. You’re planning four children with Greg? Isn’t he a little old for that?” he asked, rubbing his forehead in consternation and squinting at her.

“No, only two with Greg. Two boys.”

“Molly, you’re having two kids with Greg but four with Sherlock? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“They’re two different men,” she explained. “Makes sense to me. Of course my life with my Sherlock husband is going to be different than my life with my Greg husband. How do you not see that?”

“Okay,” he said calmly, unable to reconcile her logic with reality. “Let’s separate fact from fiction, shall we? Right now you’re talking about a _fictional_ future with Sherlock. You don’t know what’ll happen. You’re imagining the worst possible thing and making it true. Jesus! Do all women think like this?” 

“Yes,” she muttered, sulkily. “I told you that already.”

“The fact is he does lead a dangerous life,” John agreed. “He does have bad habits. The drug use makes me insanely angry. But what I’m hearing is that you’re not willing to take that risk, even for love. You’d rather not have him at all than be happy for a limited time.”

She nodded, unhappily. 

He threw up his hands. “Well, I can’t fix stupid,” he exclaimed.

“I’m not stupid!” she said. “As a responsible mother I have to consider all the possibilities, don’t I?”

“But you’re not a mother! Okay. Never mind. Forget I said that. Molly, have you considered the possibility that the two of you might run off to some nice little country estate and, I don’t know, keep bees or something and live together in domestic bliss until you die in each other’s arms at the ripe old age of 95?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

She laughed and took another swig of her drink. “Don’t be silly, John. That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know it can’t happen,” he argued. “It’s possible.”

“But not probable.”

“I’ll tell you what’s probable,” he said, turning serious and pointing a stern finger at her. “Fresh off a devastating rejection from you, he falls into Sarah’s arms and they get married. And you never get married and you don’t have two or three or four children with the man of your dreams, twins notwithstanding.”

“Who’s Sarah?” she demanded, suddenly angry.

“The woman he’s gone to stay with,” he sighed. “Lady Sarah Brayley. Oh, right. He didn’t tell you about her. Not even her name?”

“I am going to fucking flay that man alive,” she muttered, the alcohol talking. A stab of jealousy twisted her stomach. “And he’s not going to marry her. I’m going to marry Greg and Sherlock’s going to be lonely and miss me forever.”

John drew a deep, settling breath. He’d never seen her like this before. Her petulance was astonishing. She was being incoherent and unreasonable; she sounded like a 12 year old girl. “Okay,” he said, for what seemed like the tenth time, trying to calm her down, to reel her back into reality. “I’m going to tell you everything Mycroft told me about Sherlock and Lady Brayley. And you’re going to sit there and listen and not bring any of your wacko theories into it. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she scowled.

He finished half an hour later. She hadn’t interrupted, she’d sat there in rapt attention, occasionally taking a sharp intake of breath or shaking her head, riveted by the unfolding story. She’d also finished off two more generous pours of whiskey. Too much for her petite form to process on an empty stomach.

There was a silence, John studying her with an arched eyebrow and finally, she spoke. “All right. I won’t flay Sherlock. I’m going to flay _Mycroft_ ,” she stated, adamantly. She had a bit of trouble pronouncing the word “flay.”

“Get in line,” he grinned. “Everyone wants to do that. Are you okay? That was a lot of information to take in.”

“I’s fine,” she said, slurring her words a little. “I’m having a hard time absorbing all of it,” she admitted, speaking slowly. “It seems so…un-Sherlock like, doesn’t it? I mean, being that muchly romantic, that much in love, only to have it snatched away from you like that. What a trade…tradegady for both of them!”

“You mean tragedy?” he asked.

She nodded. “Tradegady. Poor Sherlock! No wonder he hates people and has such a ven…ventedda against Mycroft.”

“I know Mycroft means well,” John mused. “But he’s done a lot of damage to his little brother over the years. So misguided.” He shook his head, sadly. “But, on the other hand perhaps the families were right to break it up. They were very young.” 

She shrugged and tipped her glass, finishing the last drops of whiskey. “Who knows what the right thing to do was to do? Thank you for telling me, John. I see now why he hates sediment.”

“Sentiment,” he corrected, snickering. “Geology’s not his forte.”

“That,” she said, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “I think I unnerstand him better now.”

He looked at her carefully. Her eyes were glazing over and she was listing to one side on the sofa. “I’m going to call you a taxi,” he said, taking out his phone. “It’s getting late, you haven’t had any dinner, and I have to work tomorrow.”

“I don’t!” she said gleefully. “I don’t gotta work tomorrow.” She grinned.

“You’ll need the day off to nurse your hangover,” he muttered. “Anyway,” he told her, “I don’t want you wandering the streets in your condition. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Have not,” she replied stubbornly, standing up, wobbling, and sitting down again. She dug in her bag and pulled out her phone. “Texths,” she said, waggling her phone at him. “Ooo! From Greg. My _boyfriend_. He wonders where I am.” She poked at her phone in reply.

__

_b hme sOonish, darlinj. Ws taalking to john mH xo xo xoxo xoxxo x_

“All right. Let’s get you sorted,” John said. He gathered her things together and a little time later her taxi pulled up. As he bundled her into the cab and repeated the address to the driver he gave her some advice. “Take some paracetamol and drink a lot of water when you get home. Have Greg make you a sandwich or something, okay?”

“Otay,” she returned, her head falling back against the seat. 

John shut the taxi door and shook his head. What a confused woman, he thought. That was bizarre. He went down the stairs into his flat to check on Rosie. But I’ve done what I can on Sherlock’s behalf. I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid on the rebound. He pulled out his phone and texted Greg.

***


	9. Home is Where the Heart is

**Home is Where the Heart Is**

_Tell the world I'm coming home  
Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday  
I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes  
I'm coming home, I'm coming home_

Molly, still a bit tipsy, threw some money at the driver when he pulled up outside her building. She opened the door, got out, tripped over the kerb and fell flat on her face, ripping her trousers, skinning her knees, scraping her hands on the pavement, and dinging her chin. The contents of her bag spilled out, things bouncing and rolling everywhere, her phone screen cracking.

“Dammit!” she hollered, struggling to her feet. 

“Oopsie!” The cabbie said, leaning out of his window. “You all right?”

“Yes,” she muttered grumpily, sending him off with a wave. “No, wait!” she called, seeing he was about to drive over a small, shiny tube in the gutter. Too late; he was already gone. She leaned down, almost tumbling over, picked up her crushed lipstick and stamped her foot in frustration. Could this day get any worse? she wondered as she retrieved the rest of her stuff and staggered up the stairs, feeling sorry for herself.

Opening the door she stood in the frame, the tears starting to fall as Greg looked up from the telly. “What happened to you?” he asked, hitting the pause button on the football game and getting up. “I expected you hours ago!” He looked her up and down. “Are you okay? Did you get in a fight?”

“With the pavement. I fell down,” she replied sadly, sounding like a two year old. “I hurt myself.” She showed him her hands and knees. “My phone screen shattered. And my lipstick got crushed!” She showed him the proof.

“Aw,” he offered, sympathetically. “But it’s only a lipstick,” he shrugged. “Not the end of the world.”

“Do you know how much these things cost?” she shouted. “Sixty pounds! It’s Jimmy Choo. And this one was almost new!”

“Jesus! Sixty pounds? Although I have no idea who Jimmy Chew is or why his lipsticks cost so much,” he said. “My mum used to get hers at Boots for like, a shilling. Of course, that was back in the day.”

She stared at him as if he were from another planet. “I’m trying to imagine a world where lipsticks cost just a few pence,” she said in wonder.

“Poor baby,” he commiserated, inspecting her injuries. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” He drew her into the kitchen, made her remove her trousers and sit down. Fetching a clean flannel from the linen closet, he started washing her wounds. Toby jumped up on the counter and started to supervise.

Molly hissed as the warm, soapy water came in contact with the sensitive skin of her knees. “Stings,” she whined.

He gave her a gentle kiss, then studied her. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” he asked, wiping a dark smear from the pavement off her chin. “Ice for that bump, I think.”

“Just a little bit,” she replied. “I was talking to John. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Yes, I got something from you,” he laughed, “a bunch of random letters strung together and I got one from him. He said you were three sheets to the wind.”

“Only two sheets at this point, I think,” she said, carefully picking out a few pieces of gravel from her lipstick and trying unsuccessfully to smush it back into shape. She looked dejectedly at her cracked phone. “Maybe one.”

“Maybe you could put that into a little jar or something and use a brush to apply it with?” he suggested. “You know how you ladies do now? You could salvage most of it that way. It wouldn’t be a total loss.”

“Good idea!” she said. “You’re so clever. I have just the thing, a little pot left over from some really expensive wrinkle serum I bought. Although this has been in the gutter and it’s kind of unsanitary now, not to mention whatever’s been on those tyres. I should probably just throw it out. Damn.”

He taped a big plaster over each knee and gently rubbed some anti-bacterial cream on her palms. “Wrinkle serum?” he questioned. “You don’t have wrinkles.”

“I know!” she said, nodding emphatically. “Because I use the serum!”

“Even if you did I wouldn’t mind,” he said, giving her another kiss. “I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with the world of cosmetics,” he stated. “Sounds confusing and I was never any good at chemistry,” he shuddered. “No point in trying to cover your hands, I think,” he mused, “unless the doctor thinks differently?”

“It’s fine,” she sighed. “John said you would make me a sandwich.” She poked at her phone and grinned. “Hey, it still works!”

“Things are looking up,” he smiled. “Already made it,” he said, pulling it out of the fridge. “Your dinner, m’lady. American style. Ham and cheddar with romaine. Lots of salad cream and your favorite French mustard. So decadent.” He put an open bag of crisps on the counter. 

She dug in as he filled a large glass of water for her and then went down the hall to get a clean pair of sweatpants for her to slip into, as well as some paracetamol. Coming back, he twisted a few pieces of ice into a tea towel for her chin. After she finished they moved over to the sofa and he put his arms around her whilst she sniffled against his shoulder and applied the ice pack. They sat in comfortable silence for a while.

“Bad afternoon, was it?” he tentatively asked, passing her a tissue.

She nodded tearily, wiping her eyes. “Yes. Thank you for taking care of me.” She smiled and gave him a kiss, immediately followed by another, lingering one. “Mmm,” she breathed, as they warmed to each other. She tossed the ice pack onto the table and wound her fingers into his soft, silver hair. 

He kissed her back, his tongue exploring her mouth, one hand gently caressing her breast as she leaned into him. Breaking away from her for a moment, he chuckled. “I don’t know how you can smell so good when you’ve had too much to drink.” He gazed at her, his eyes soft, his fingers stroking her cheek. “You’re really beautiful, Molly, even when you’re a wreck.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you handsome sweet talker,” she murmured.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded eagerly, leaning in. Ten minutes later they came up for air and he withdrew his hand from where it had wandered under her blouse.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Greg?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you like, maybe think about, perhaps moving in with me?” He was silent for a minute and she held her breath, thinking perhaps she was moving too fast, or maybe he didn’t want to, or maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all. “It’s just you spend the night three or four times a week now,” she plunged ahead, “and half your stuff is already here anyway. I thought it might be nice for you to get out of that nasty one room flat you moved into after the divorce.”

He looked at her, smiled, and caressed her cheek. “I’d like that very much,” he replied, giving her a quick kiss. “It would be pretty great to have a home again. I’m getting tired of that horrible room. It’s dirty and the noise from the pub below is pretty bad at night. This place is so big and clean,” he looked around at her spacious, spotless flat admiringly. “Are you sure, though? I don’t want to rush you.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t want to,” she said. “We can give it a try. We can make this place our own little kingdom, our refuge from the world. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“All right, then. I’ll start bringing the rest of my stuff over. There isn’t much, just a few pieces of…wreckage from the divorce,” he joked, bitterly.

“Do you miss her?” she asked, biting her lip.

He shrugged. “Not really. All she did was cheat on me over the years, so no, I don’t miss her. I miss my kid, though, not enough visiting time, and I feel badly about the failed marriage. Not a nice thing to have on one’s record.”

“Well,” she replied, “no one can say you didn’t try as hard as you could. And we have each other now.” She curled into his arms, content.

“I’ve been meaning to mention this,” he said. “You’ll have a break from me in another six weeks or so, towards the end of April. I’ve got to go up to Leeds on a training for a month. Sort of an exchange between various police departments. It’s a new initiative they’re experimenting with. I tried getting out of it but it’s required. I’d much rather stay here and snuggle with you.” He caught her up in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. A while later they broke apart again; she pushed him away, breathless and flushed, doing up the buttons on her blouse.

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” he said, trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving. “I don’t know why I didn’t go for you sooner.”

“I was kind of fixated on him, wasn’t I?” she admitted. He nodded, understandingly. “Well, that’s all over. I’ve moved on to better things.” There was a short silence. “Greg, when was the last time you saw him?” she asked.

He shrugged and thought. “Maybe right after Sherrinford, at Musgrave Hall, his family home,” he said. “No, wait. Here, that night we went to Pierre’s. So, what’s that? Three, four weeks ago?”

“Why didn’t you tell me what really happened to him at that place? All the particulars, I mean.”

“What’s this about, anyway?” he asked, slightly suspicious.

“Tonight John told me everything that happened. That’s why I was late. And now I’m curious why you didn’t tell me that day in the lab. You kind of skimmed over the details.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably. “Sherlock asked me not to. Well, us. He asked everyone who was there. I felt a little bad about it, thinking you ought to know, but he convinced me it would only upset you. He thought it was for the best if you never found out. Anyway, you and I had already moved on to…other things that day in the lab,” he smiled.

“Why do men always get to decide what’s best for me?” she grumbled. “My father, Sherlock, Stamford even, now you. I’ve been bossed around by men my entire life. Why am I not allowed to decide for myself what I can handle? I’m not a child!”

He chuckled and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close in a hug, rubbing her upper arm. “Trust me, Molly, you really don’t want to know all the stuff Sherlock gets into. It scares me and I’m used to bad people doing very bad things. He’s fearless.”

“Dimwitted, you mean,” she corrected. “Hasn’t enough sense to know what’s too dangerous. And you’re missing the point.”

“I suppose I am,” he said, evenly.

“It’s just all these constraints over the years have been irritating. Like I can’t be trusted to run my own life or handle unpleasant stuff. I cut up cadavers for a living. I can handle unpleasantness.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to protect the people you love?” he asked, confused.

“Nothing, I suppose, but when your desire to protect me gets in the way of my own autonomy, isn’t that too much?” she countered.

“Well,” he nodded, “when you figure out that exact line, let me know. It seems to change constantly, doesn’t it, depending on the circumstances. And I think it’s programmed into men to want to protect women. It’s in our genes. Well, decent men, anyway.”

“Don’t you start with me about women being the weaker sex,” she growled. “That only keeps you all in a position of power.”

“I’m not saying that!” he said. “I’m just saying it’s natural to want to protect other people from getting hurt. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.” He shrugged. “I mean, don’t you feel that way about Rosie? Wouldn’t you stop her from wandering out into the street and getting hit by a car? That’s protection, isn’t it?”

“Rosie’s a baby,” she responded. “It’s incumbent on her caretakers to protect her.”

“You’d still do the same thing if she was 20 years old,” he argued.

“Your example is juvenile,” she grumbled, frustrated.

“Yes, it is! Because she’s a baby. A juvenile,” he chuckled, amused by his own joke.

“I’m talking about grown men withholding information from grown women because they think they know better. That’s infantilizing women.”

“Listen, Molls,” he said with a sigh, “I know you’re angry at Sherlock for not telling you the whole truth about what happened in that terrible place. And in any normal situation I might agree with you. But his life is hardly normal and I would think you might not want to know everything he gets into. That reminds me, I want to go see him. To make sure he’s okay with us, now that we’ve…heated up.” He waved his hand between them.

“Why shouldn’t he be?” she asked, stiffly. “He’s got nothing to say about who I date. I belong to me.”

“Yeah, but, you know,” he said with another hand motion, trying to encapsulate all the complexities of the situation. “Him. You. Me. I don’t want it to be awkward between any of us because I still need his help sometimes.”

“Well, you can’t see him now. He’s gone out of town for god knows how long.”

“On the run again, chasing baddies?”

“No, he’s gone to Devon. Oh my god, you don’t know about any of this, do you? Wait until I tell you what John told me earlier. It’s unbelievable.” She told him the entire story of Sherlock and Sarah’s youthful affair.

He looked dumbstruck by the time she finished. “Huh. I never would have guessed,” he said. “Imagine that. He’s a romantic!” he laughed. “That bastard, pretending to be otherwise all these years. Doesn’t that just beat all. Well, I hope he finds happiness. He’s a good man, he deserves it. And maybe he’ll tone down the dangerous stuff, if he’s found love.”

“That stuff is exactly what makes him a bad risk,” she muttered. 

“What’s that?” he said.

“Nothing,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “Anyway, you don’t know that he has,” she countered. “Found love, I mean.” She was careful to keep her tone moderate.

“Well, she’s out there and available now, so who knows?” he shrugged, unpausing the telly, indicating he was done talking about it. “Of course she’ll have a mourning period, but first loves tend to stick in your heart forever. I still have a soft spot for Susie Lewis, my fourth year crush, and she used to beat me up whenever I got near her,” he laughed. “Molly, watch this play.”

She began to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, rubbing her hand across his firm chest. She leaned in and nuzzled his ear, nibbling on it. “Haven’t you watched this game already, my darling?”

“Yeah, but Kevin De Bruyne is bloody brilliant in the second half,” he replied, his eyes glued to the screen. “Look at this pass; it’s incredible. Hey, will you get me another beer?” He handed over his empty.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, got him another and went to bed, feeling tired, headachy and, for some reason she didn’t understand, thoroughly disgruntled. Settling into the sheets, she sniffled and wiped a tear away.

He came to bed an hour later, stripping down to his boxers and climbing into bed. Spooning her, he wrapped one arm around her and began to nuzzle her neck just under her ear, in that sensitive place she liked so much. “Have I been ignoring you?” he whispered.

She flipped over to face him and wound her arms around him. “Just a little,” she smiled, kissing him. “How was the game?”

“Turned out exactly as I expected,” he laughed.

“Greg, make love to me,” she purred, pressing herself against him. “I need you tonight.”

“My pleasure,” he said, kissing her deeply, caressing her waist and hips with warm, experienced hands before pushing her over onto her back. His lips trailed over her skin, down her neck to her collarbones and further down still, to kiss her breasts above her nightgown. “Hard and fast or slow and sweet?” he asked.

“Slow and sweet,” she replied, with a sad smile. “I’m feeling lonely tonight.”

“Oh, Molly,” he said, reaching down and pulling up her nightgown. He slowly ran his hand up the smooth skin of her bare leg. “I don’t want you to ever feel lonely again.”

She sighed with pleasure at his touch and slid her arms around his neck.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Susie Lewis is the name of Rupert Graves’ wife 😉


	10. Holsworthy

**  
Holsworthy**

_Can I sleep in your arms tonight, lady  
It's so cold lying here all alone  
And I have no hold to hold on you  
And I assure you I'll do you no wrong  
Don't know why but the one I love left me  
Left me lonely and cold and so weak  
And I need someone's arms there to hold me  
Till I'm strong enough to get back on my feet_

As Sherlock boarded the train for the West Country he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running away, fleeing from an untenable situation instead of facing it like he ought to. He didn’t know what he’d expected from that dinner with Molly a few nights ago. Maybe that she would abandon Greg, leap into his arms and cover him with her lovely kisses. That they would fall into bed together at last. Christ, he thought, shaking his head. He didn’t used to indulge in wishful thinking but now here he was, daydreaming about her like some bewitched, befuddled, cow-eyed lad. Ridiculous. But, he paused, maybe if he’d only tried harder.

 _You can’t force her to love you,_ his brain pointed out.

“I wouldn’t want to,” he mumbled. “That’s not love. If I can’t win her on my own merits then I don’t deserve her.”

 _You made a mistake,_ his brain continued, _flying too close to the ground. Skidding along in the mud with the rest of humanity. Pathetic. You never should have fallen. It only leads to heartbreak._

“We don’t rule our hearts,” he stated. “Besides, the mistake wasn’t in the falling, it was in admitting it to her. I never should have said anything.”

_Still hurts, though._

“Yes, it does,” he sighed. The woman across the aisle looked up from her book and cast a trepidatious glance in his direction. Apparently, he realized, he was talking out loud to himself. He gave her a crooked, half-hearted smile. She got up and moved to another seat towards the back of the compartment.

Moriarty was right, he thought. It’s not the fall that kills you. It’s the landing. He could still feel the impact of those three little words, like the concrete pavement outside Bart’s rushing up to meet him, slamming against his carefully constructed psyche, breaking him into pieces that could never be reassembled in the same way again. _I love you._ He hadn’t realized he was so brittle until the moment he shattered, severed from his previous understanding of himself like blades of grass swept under the scythe of her insistence. _Say it. Say it like you mean it._

Why couldn’t she just have said it and not demanded he say it first? Then all of this subsequent thrashing around would be unnecessary, rendered moot, and he would still be in control of his heart. He shook his head. Thinking like this is madness, he told himself. It is what it is. Well, he reasoned, she’d gotten over him. Now he just had to get over her.

 _It’s not something you get over. It’s something you get through,_ his brain reminded him. _So this change will do you good. You can help Sarah and her family instead. And maybe something will rekindle._

A little early for that, isn’t it? he thought. Addison hasn’t been dead for much more than a month. She had married him, loved him, after all. She was deep in grief for her husband, for her child, for the past 20 years that had been suddenly obliterated, crushed against the side of a mountain in Scotland. You don’t get through that in six months or a year.

 _Ah, so you’re impatient now. Maybe it won’t take that long. How much, exactly, did she love him, do you think?_ his brain mused. _Didn’t she love you more?_

Stop it! he chastised himself. One can’t quantify the ineffable. Not everything in life can be broken down into chemistry, mathematics or physics, into the precise, predictable movements of molecules spinning in the cosmic dust that surrounds us. I used to think that but now I’m not sure. Perhaps there are other forces in operation which we don’t yet understand. Surely there must be something beyond the physical, other universal laws that govern us in ways not fully comprehended.

 _Behold the machine,_ his brain laughed. _The man with ice water in his veins, the cold, impassionate scientist. The man of impeccable reason and pure logic. Brought low by sentiment and mumbling about measureless, mystical energies. Checked your horoscope in the paper today? Your lucky colour is yellow. Coward._

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, turning his attention to the fields rolling by outside the window and contemplating all the little lives in the villages they passed. People struggling for food and shelter, searching for hope and goodness, striving for love, understanding, and acceptance. For the real, essential material of the universe: the precious fragments of tenderness that bind us together, that keep us fixed in life, anchored to each other and to our planet.

For as long as he could remember he’d been on the other side of people’s caged existence but now it seemed he was desperately trying to break the bars and get in, almost craving the unfamiliar, strange comfort of their emotional imprisonment.

 _How the mighty have fallen,_ his brain remarked.

He was suddenly tired, feeling overwhelmed by the rapidly changing circumstances of his own life, as if the earth was spinning too fast, time accelerating, dragging him along a resolute path not entirely of his own making. Too much had happened over the last few months and he was still scrambling to get his feet under him. Mary. Eurus. Molly. Sarah. It felt like the women in his life were smacking him around.

 _No,_ his brain corrected. _They’re just trying to wake you up._

A lifetime ago before Molly dumped him, before Sherrinford, before Mary died, before Rosie was born, he’d crafted a crazy, drug fueled dream about an army of brides seeking revenge on the men who had wronged them, and he was only now beginning to understand their stories, their perspective, what his subconscious had been telling him. How they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders whilst the men in their lives abused and discounted them.

 _Even you,_ his brain said.

That was the point of the dream, he huffed. Even me. Well, not any more, he promised. Things were going to be different now. He’d change if it killed him. He took a deep breath. He had to admit he was looking forward to being in the country for a while. Things were calmer there. It was easier to slow down, easier to breathe. He closed his eyes, steepled his fingers, and turned off his mind for the rest of the journey.

Philip, Holsworthy’s head groundskeeper, a rough, grizzled man just past 50, met him at the station. It had started to rain. “Your trunks arrived this morning,” he informed him as Sherlock grabbed his overnight bag and his violin before they dashed between the raindrops to the old Range Rover. “Jerome had them taken to your usual bedroom, the blue bedroom.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied. “How goes it at the house? How is everyone?”

Philip flashed him a look and sadly shook his head as he started the car and drove off. “Not well. In my 25 years at Holsworthy I’ve never seen everyone so low. Between her daughter and her husband, Lady Anne is beside herself so she’s indulging in her soothers more often than usual, wanders the halls day and night. Lady Sarah is in a lot of pain and mostly sticks to her bed. Scott is nowhere to be found. And Lord Robert, well, whatever’s wrong with him, he’s not looking well. Harold is…Harold. The staff is carrying along as best we can, hoping that keeping a normal environment will provide some stability. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Sherlock nodded, grunted, and turned his head to watch the rain sheeting down from a rumbling grey sky for the remainder of the drive to the house. Philip dropped him off at the front entrance and drove around the back to put the car in the garage.

Sherlock looked up at the massive, buff-coloured gothic mansion in front of him with its weathered exterior, turrets, pointed arch windows and doors and the incised stone gingerbread decorating the steeply pitched roofs and gables. His home for the foreseeable future, a place he knew as well as his parent’s cottage, as well as his own flat in Baker Street.

Thick rolls of cold fog, undeterred by the rain, flowed down the hill from the moor that rose up behind the house, curling around the trees that surrounded the house and adding to his sense of foreboding. Holsworthy was filled with sick, hurting people who needed his strength and he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. He felt more fragile, more unsure of himself than ever before and he was struck with a sudden urge to hightail it back to the easy, controllable comfort of London.

 _Buck up,_ his brain said. _They need you now._

Sherlock took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and entered the mansion. He ran up to his bedroom, changed into a warm, cashmere jumper, and dried his hair. He’d forgotten how cold it could be inside the house on a rainy March afternoon. Finding his way to the parlour where the family usually gathered for cocktails at this hour, he plastered a somewhat stiff smile on his face and went in to greet everyone.

*

The days passed slowly, the hours stretching out thinly. A gloom dwelt in the walls of Holsworthy, shifting and tugging on the people within. Things that used to be strong with life were now gone or fading, ghostly memories drifting in the hallways, in the once bright rooms. Everyone was overly cheerful, making an enormous effort — not least of all Sherlock — but it was hard going, the melancholy seemingly insoluble. At least the days were growing longer, he thought, the sun returning, sweeping away some of the stubborn darkness lingering in the corners of the house.

He kept busy, kept pushing forward. He drove Sarah to physical therapy at the local hospital three times a week, read aloud to her as she worked at her lacemaking pillow, kept track of the elusive Scott, prying him out of his various hiding places to join the rest of the family at meals or to soak up the watery sun in the back garden, tempted the science-minded 16 year old with fascinating glimpses into the microscope in the library, struck up his violin to accompany Lady Anne’s piano, had long, rambling conversations over a chess board with Lord Robert about everything except their painful shared past, offered interesting books to the staff, spoke encouragingly to everyone, avoided the annoying Harold as much as possible, and took solitary walks on the moor to refresh himself when he couldn’t stand it anymore. His self-imposed perkiness was wearing him out. He felt an urgency dogging him, a need to get through and be done, along with a frustration roiling in his stomach at how little he was accomplishing.

After a few weeks Lady Anne pulled him aside and told him to stop forcing it. “You’re doing wonderfully but grief takes time,” she explained, offering him several pulls off her blunt. “This isn’t like one of your cases with an identifiable solution and a clear path to the finish. You can’t make happiness happen and you can’t thieve sadness away,” she said, before adding, “It’s selfish to deprive people of their emotional energy just because it makes you uncomfortable. Let go. The river flows at its own pace.” Sherlock gratefully accepted the herbal soother along with her advice and attempted over the subsequent days to calm down, to merge with the stream instead of trying to push it along.

He began to relax, to appreciate the steady, even days which blended seamlessly into each other, the quiet pace of country life unfolding before him. He was more used to rushing about, always chasing excitement, and it took him a little while to settle into a more measured step.

The slowing down seemed to birth a large, empty space in his chest, a blankness, a dark, purplish void which nevertheless breathed possibilities. When he described it to Lady Anne one day in the back garden over a shared joint, she gave him a secret smile and patted his hand. “Ah,” she noted, “that’s where the freshness grows.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but some part of it felt somehow true. The void proved unsettling for a week or so until, like everything else in this house, it grew softer, less unwelcome and he began to submerge, to rest in unknowing. It felt like living inside a strange, shapeless dream but one that appealed to his ever curious mind.

Still, he liked to keep busy, perhaps seeking a distraction from his frequent visions of Molly who sometimes looked at him in his mind’s eye with crushing disappointment and at other times with a tender pride. He began to view these hypothetical responses to his behaviors as a barometer of growth and goodness and he tried to modulate himself to meet her imaginary approval.

Looking for things to do, he started exercising the few horses they owned and inexpertly fishing for bream, pike, and tench in the broad, deep lake Lord Robert still kept stocked with coarse fish. Those he caught he gave to Cook who fried them up for breakfast or used them in her Kedgeree.

Sometimes after dinner he’d stand on the stone patio overlooking the back garden, having a pipe and ruminating over the patchy state of the lawn and the poor drainage in the vegetable gardens. He’d have to talk to Philip about getting those things sorted, he decided. A few times a week he checked on the bee skeps with young James, one of the groundskeeping lads, to guard against the deadly fungus. One afternoon he even wore his tweed jacket for exactly two and three quarter hours before ripping it off in disgust, chucking it in the bin, and rolling his eyes at his own disingenuousness.

 _Good try, but you’re hardly lord of the manor material,_ his brain laughed.

The highlight of his weeks were his regular post-breakfast visits to the village to hang out at the small coffee shop for an hour or two. After he made his presence known, it only took a few days for word to spread through the population that Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, was in town. Soon the locals began to queue up to beg his assistance with their problems. He held court over endless cups of espresso, latte, and strong, black tea, listening intently to the villager’s often embellished tales and practicing expanding the limits of his patience.

It was minor stuff — lost dogs, missing valuables, the aftermath of ongoing disagreements at the pub (the brawlers apparently expecting Sherlock to act as some kind of binding judiciary), and inscrutable neighborly behaviors. “Why is Mr. Trillby digging in his garden at three a.m.?” a nosy Mrs. Hatchett asked. “I think he’s disposing of a body,” she whispered across the table between them. “He’s cut it into bits and is burying the pieces,” she finished, firmly.

“He’s not burying a murder victim, it’s simple insomnia,” Sherlock whispered back. “And why shouldn’t a man dig in his garden whenever he wants? He’s probably planting his spring peas by the waxing moon, a method which hasn’t been proven efficacious via scientific study but is still considered viable amongst some superstitious types. See, the theory is just as the moon’s gravitational pull causes tides to rise and fall, it also affects moisture levels in the soil causing the seeds to swell, resulting in increased germination and better-established plants. But all that is by the by. The more apropos concern, Mrs. Hatchett,” he continued, “is why are you spying on him at such an ungodly hour? What’s keeping you awake?”

His question unfortunately led to a long, tearful explanation of her son’s ill health and how terrified she was of losing him, resulting in her own struggles with sleeplessness. Reduced to actually feeling sympathy for the woman, Sherlock found himself gently patting her hand and murmuring hollow words of comfort like any normal person might do. He was almost sorry he’d asked.

The stream of locals continued over the weeks, bringing on several occasions tasty, beguiling assurances of sinister poisonings which sadly always turned out to be indigestion resulting from overindulgence. All these narratives were ridiculous claims hardly worth powering up his brain cells for, but he took a certain comfort in the honest simplicity of the community’s interests as well as in their steadfast belief of his superhuman acumen.

He missed London, missed seeing John and Rosie, missed Molly’s gentle smile and sparkling brown eyes, but after one month at Holsworthy he finally felt he had settled in.

One night about five weeks after he arrived he was tiptoeing down the hallway on his way to bed. It was late — he hadn’t meant to stay up until two a.m., but he’d gotten involved with testing various bottles of poisons he’d found around the house, squirreled away in the old, unused workrooms of the mansion. He’d located metal and furniture polishes, oven and drain cleaners as well as dusty brown glass bottles filled with thick, unknown liquids from a century ago and used for god knows what, their painted labels worn into illegibility over the decades by servant’s hands. He’d been having a good time analyzing and cataloguing their contents.

As he passed Sarah’s door he stopped. He could hear muffled crying and the light was cracking through underneath. He scratched on the wood. “Sarah?” he whispered. The crying stopped and the light went out. Despite the negative indications, he slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open.

By the ambient light he could see she was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a pale nightgown which made her seem to glow like the moon herself. However, unlike the moon — a cold and distant celestial body — her body, broken and hurting, underscored her immediate, fragile humanity. The silhouette of her back brace, noticeable under her sleepwear, and her red, blotchy face further revealed her tender, very human predicament. He felt his heart melt and thought she looked positively angelic. Her hand was pressed over her mouth as she tried to stifle the noise she was making. “Oh, Sarah,” he said sympathetically, entering the room and sitting beside her.

With an inarticulate wail she threw her arms around him and burst into fresh tears, burying her face in his chest. He wrapped her up in his arms, conscious of her injuries, holding her as tightly as he dared whilst she continued to weep, pouring out her grief and loss into the fibres of his shirt.

“I miss them so much!” she cried.

“Of course you do,” he agreed, softly, rubbing her back. “Of course you do. You’ve been so brave, my love.”

“It’s all my fault. I…I was driving,” she confessed in a whisper, tightening her arms around him.

“I know,” he said, evenly.

“H…How?”

“You haven’t talked about it yet,” he replied. “Not one word. I just knew.”

“I killed them,” she sobbed. “The car…I couldn’t control it. It just…slid. Everything was ice and the snow was so thick I couldn’t see anything. It was horrible, like in slow motion. Addy was shouting and then we were going over the edge and there was an awful crunching…oh god! Oh, Sherlock! My beautiful Beth, my kind, generous Addy. I can’t believe they’re gone. I can’t bear it! They’re gone because of me. How am I going to live with this?”

“You didn’t kill them,” he responded, gently stroking her hair. “It’s not your fault. It could have happened to anyone. The road was icy. The car slid. It was an accident. Listen to me, my darling,” he said, firmly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know what you mean,” she replied. “But yes, it is my fault.” She took a deep breath, nodding her disagreement against his shoulder. He knew she didn’t believe him, couldn’t yet admit she wasn’t to blame. It was going to take a long time until she could forgive herself, he reckoned, if ever, and he would not push her. She had to move into a future which no longer included a husband and a daughter and she had to do it in her own time, in her own way. But at least the words had come out of her mouth, he thought, and that was a step forward. However, secrets between them remained.

He had stayed silent since his arrival about his grief, his sadness over the mess regarding his own family and the loss of Molly’s affection, and sometimes he wondered if he should tell her about it. But as the days passed he decided she already had too much to deal with and it would only be a burden to her, so he kept his silence and swallowed his pain.

There was nothing more he could say, he realized as he held her, there were no words that would prove adequate against the magnitude of her bereavement. They were simply two aching hearts in a dark room feeling the pain of being left behind, magnetized by their need for the sweet comfort of human touch. They held onto each other for a long time until the unbearable wave of her grief ebbed.

She drew a long, shaky breath and pulled back, leaving one trembling hand on his chest. “May I sleep in your arms tonight, Sherlock?” she said. “It’s so cold lying here all alone.”

“Yes, absolutely,” he responded. “Let me go change.” He was back in a few minutes, dressed in his pajamas and ready for bed. He’d brought a warm, damp flannel and gently wiped her face, soothing her tears. “Now,” he instructed, “you get settled so you’re comfortable and I’ll fit myself around you. Is that okay?”

She nodded and laid down on her side, slowly drawing her legs up, wincing from the pain of this movement. He spooned her, tucking his knees behind hers and pulling her long, dark hair away from her face before carefully sliding his arm around her waist. At this intimate contact time suddenly rushed backwards, flooding him with bittersweet memories of the intoxicating taste of her smooth, rosy skin and the feel of her once youthful, eager body in his arms. He closed his eyes and breathed a lamentable sigh over their long separation.

They had lost so much over the years, time and circumstance pulling them apart, the powerful river flowing inexorably, mercilessly onward as it must. But now it seemed to be turning around on itself — or perhaps they had been swept into a whirlpool — and maybe, he thought, they might once again find each other in the rushing water and reclaim that which had foundered.

 _Deep waters, Sherlock,_ his brain said in Eurus’ voice. _All your life, in all your dreams._

“Rest now, Sarah,” he urged, pulling up the duvet and tucking her in. “Things will be better tomorrow.” A silence fell as they waited for sleep to come, both acutely aware of the visceral press of their bodies, of the movement of their breath, of the beating of their hearts.

“Do you feel it too?” she asked. “Here, in the air between us now. The way we used to be?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I feel it.”

“No one can know,” she stated. “Just like before.”

“No one will know,” he replied. “Besides, we haven’t done anything and we’re not teenagers anymore. We’re two old friends, helping each other through troublesome times.”

“Two old friends,” she repeated, murmuring sleepily, lacing her fingers through his over her stomach. He didn’t respond and a few minutes later he felt her body relax against him and her breathing grow deep and even. She was asleep; he followed her moments later.

He awoke before dawn and slipped back to his own room. He lay in bed, unable to return to sleep, thinking about what she had felt like curled up against him in the dark. He could barely wait to have the opportunity to do it again. It had been many years since he’d last slept with a woman so near and it was no wonder, he realized, that his bed at Baker Street had begun to feel terribly vast and horribly empty.

Over the nights and weeks that followed sleeping together became a regular occurrence. Not every night, but somehow they just knew when they needed each other; a look would pass between them and after the household had grown quiet he would step across the hall to join her in bed. There was little talking and no sex; silently holding each other was satisfactory for now and they both instinctively knew engaging in that particular act would cross an unspoken line and unearth something they weren’t ready to deal with yet. It was too soon, they wordlessly agreed, understanding that now was not the time to press the river.

As the nights passed Sherlock was proven right: no one in the household ever found them out and if Lady Anne suspected, she kept her own counsel.

***


	11. Into Battle

**Into Battle**

_Maybe I didn't love you  
Quite as often as I could have  
And maybe I didn't treat you  
Quite as good as I should have  
If I made you feel second best  
Girl I'm sorry I was blind  
You were always on my mind  
You were always on my mind_

—Early May—

Molly ran down the hall into her flat, slammed the door shut and locked it. She threw the deadbolt and then looking around, got a kitchen chair and wedged it under the doorknob for additional protection. Sitting on the sofa she started shaking all over, frightened half to death. Toby jumped up onto her and she clutched him to her, taking some comfort from his fuzzy warmth and purry vibrations.

She was being followed. Stalked. She knew it now with absolute certainty. She hadn’t been mistaken. The same man she’d seen a number of times on the street had trailed her all the way home from Bart’s. 

Earlier today after leaving the hospital she’d decided to walk along the bus route since the weather was so nice. Spring was one of her favourite times of the year with the dark, cold weather retreating and the fresh, lush greenery beginning to pop. All of the flowering trees in the city were in full bloom and she wanted to enjoy their stunning display. She reckoned she’d hop on the bus when and if she got tired of walking. 

A few kilometers along her route she’d stopped to smell some blossoms on a low-hanging branch and that’s when she noticed him, that particular shade of his green jacket striking her consciousness, just visible out of the corner of her eye. He was hanging back on the pavement looking at his phone. He was big and scruffy; he looked strong. Her wariness growing, she tried an experiment: when she moved, so did he. When she stopped, so did he. 

She got on the very next bus that came along, taking a seat right behind the driver. He got on, too, passing her by to sit near the back. She didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t made any threatening gestures, hadn’t spoken to her, looked at her, or approached her in any way. It seemed silly to make a scene when when nothing was actually happening but she felt incredibly unsafe. She half turned in her seat to look at him. His head was down, studying his phone. She got off close to her flat and hurried towards home. Glancing over her shoulder as she rushed along the street, she saw he’d exited the bus too and was wandering along behind her, straight towards her flat as if he knew the way.

“Why is he following me?” she asked Toby. She couldn’t figure it out but at least she knew she wasn’t overreacting or making it up in her head. She got up and peeked out the window. There he was! Hanging out on the corner just below her, leaning against a low retaining wall, looking around. She got a big knife from the kitchen, put it on the coffee table, and sat down again. Her hands were shaking.

What to do? He was a large man and she really didn’t feel like going out there to talk to him, to confront him, to ask him what the hell he was doing. That didn’t seem like a wise course of action. She picked up her phone and rang the city police. Not the emergency number, just dispatch. Five minutes later she put her phone down, frustrated. They hadn’t been at all helpful. Apparently if he hadn’t tried anything then they couldn’t do anything. They’d send a car around once they had a spare minute and suggested she get a restraining order. But that could take weeks in the courts and she didn’t even know who he was. 

She got up and started pacing. Greg was currently up in Leeds so there’d be no help from him and John had taken Rosie and gone to visit his sister in Hertfordshire. She was on her own. Struck with how terribly vulnerable she felt, she checked outside again. He was still out there. He gazed up at her window and their eyes met. Her heart leaped in terror and she shrank away.

She was alone and she knew she couldn’t hide in her flat until Greg came home in two weeks time. And suppose he tried to break in? She didn’t know how dangerous he was, if he was mentally disturbed, insanely evil, just weirdly fixated or any of a thousand other possibilities. If she could make it to work she’d be safe inside Bart’s. Certainly no one would accost her there but getting there and home again safely was an issue. She could take a taxi both ways but the continued expense would be higher than she could afford. No, she needed to get some outside help. 

She peered out the window again. He was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief which quickly turned to horror once she realized he could be entering her building and creeping down her hallway _right now_. She picked up the knife and stood by the door for ten minutes, waiting, listening intently. After a while she realized he wasn’t going to break in, most likely he’d just wandered off. She sat down and put the knife back on the table. She still didn’t know what to do or how to get help.

With an aggravated sigh it suddenly occurred to her — she knew who she could ask. After all, he’d promised to help her, hadn’t he, if she needed him. Regretfully shaking her head she also remembered, with an uncomfortable turn of her stomach, her snotty response to his kind offer. _Why would I need you?_

She picked up her phone but let it rest idle in her hands, still thinking. She really didn’t want to do this. It seemed…weak, but then she argued it might be better to appear weak than to be dead.

Grumbling to herself, she sent him a text.

_Can you help me? I’m being stalked, Greg’s out of town, police can’t help and I’m scared. What should I do? MH_

She poured herself a steadying glass of red wine and waited. Thirty nail-biting minutes later she received a reply.

__

_I can’t leave here. Too busy. Pack a bag for 10 days and come see me. Paddington, transfer at Exeter to Okehampton. I’ll pick you up. SH_

A receipt for a pre-paid train ticket was attached. All right, she thought, considering his offer. Leaving town right now actually seemed like a good idea. I’ll just take a little vacation to the West Country. Maybe he could figure out what she should do, or perhaps by the time she got back her stalker will have gotten bored and moved along, leaving her in peace. 

And there was the added bonus of satisfying her curiosity regarding Lady Sarah Brayley. Ever since John had told her about her connection with Sherlock she’d been dying to know more about her; now there was an opportunity to meet her in person. She’d perused a few sensational tabloid stories with blurry photographs which had run about the family and the car accident, afterwards growing angry at herself for reading such trash. 

Fine, she decided. She could kill two birds with one stone if she went into the country. Solve her stalking problem and find out what the woman was like whom Sherlock had loved all those years ago. Not that it mattered to her, personally, in the slightest, she told herself. She wasn’t in love with him anymore, anyway. It was merely scientific curiosity.

A few more texts sealed the deal. She worked out the vacation time with Stamford and two days later she dropped Toby and his food, toys, litter box, and kitty treats off at her neighbor’s flat before boarding the train for Devon. She felt fine leaving Toby with them, as much as she would miss him. Patrick and his wife Siobhan, an older couple from county Cork, Ireland, loved Toby and were always buying him little catnip toys and Dreamies when they went to the market. He’d be safe and pampered with them.

She sat on the train, staring out the window and watching the cityscape turn into greening fields and then into the gentle, rolling hills of the western Midlands. The long train ride gave her too much time to think and worry. To think about Sherlock and herself, to worry about Sherlock and this strange, posh woman she was about to meet — the first woman to capture his heart, the love he wasn’t allowed to keep. She ordered some food to try to take her mind off her nerves but the meal was not good — a cold, soggy, sausage butty and some stale vegetable crisps. She couldn’t finish it. 

Ratcheting up her anxiety even further, there was a long delay outside of Langport because an enormous flock of sheep had broken through their fencing and strayed onto the tracks. It took nearly three hours to locate and contact the farmer, round them all up and safely drive them off. It was approaching midnight when she arrived and she was tired, nervous, and unsettled, wondering about Sherlock, worried about what she might find between him and Lady Sarah.

As she stepped onto the platform, she saw him immediately, tall and as handsome as ever, looking rested and relaxed. It was such a relief seeing him waving at her, and she immediately felt like everything was going to be okay. She was a little surprised to find him in dark jeans, a jumper, and a light jacket; she’d expected a suit like he usually wore in town but immediately realized that was silly — he was on a holiday, of sorts. Why shouldn’t he dress casually?

She approached him, smiling. A bit of an awkward moment ensued, however, when they couldn’t figure out if a hug, a handshake, or a kiss on the cheek was appropriate, so after a few false starts they gave up, he picked up her bags and led her to the car, one of Lord Robert’s low riding vintage Morgans.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, passing her a wrapped package as they got settled in. “Cook sent you this.”

“Starving!” she replied, unwrapping a delicious looking chicken salad sandwich and tucking in. “Thanks. I wasn’t expecting such a delay and the food on the train was…disappointing.”

“Always is,” he said, with a chuckle. He started the car and headed towards Holsworthy on the twisting lanes that ran along the edge of the moor which rose, high, dark, and foreboding, off to their left. “How have you been, Molly?”

“Okay, I guess,” she said. “Busy. London is much the same. John sends his regards, and he wanted me to say Rosie misses you. He gave her one of your old deerstalkers to play with, the one with the torn earflap, and she won’t let go of it. She looks so funny with that hat on her head and I think it makes John nervous!” she laughed. “She’s taking after you, Sherlock.”

“Maybe I could pop down for a few days later in the spring,” he mused. “I’d like to see her, too. So, Molly, on the topic of stalkers, tell me about yours.”

“Oh, Sherlock. It’s been awful! I’ve seen him at least a dozen times now,” she said, between mouthfuls. “Over the last few months, since early February, I think. It’s always the same man. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but I kept seeing him. On my way to Bart’s and back home on the bus or the tube, near John’s place once when I was sitting Rosie, at the park a couple of times. And I saw him loitering around outside my flat right before I texted you! He actually followed me home! I thought about confronting him, but he’s rather big and I was too scared. I think he’s homeless. I talked to the police and they said unless he tries something they can’t do anything. I’ve been terrified, Sherlock! I have no way of defending myself. I mean, I guess I could kick him in the balls but then I worry he’d grab my foot and I’d be on the ground and helpless in no time.”

“We need to brush up on your self defense skills whilst you’re here,” he offered.

“Good idea,” she responded. “I’d appreciate that. So, what do you think? Why would someone be stalking me? I’m not important.”

“You are important, Molly. You count. I keep telling you that; are you ever going to believe me?”

Molly worried her lip. “Maybe,” she acquiesced, quietly.

He gave her a warm smile. “I know a lot of London’s homeless. What does he look like? Maybe I know him.”

“He’s tall, a little taller than you,” she replied. “An older man, probably in his mid-50s? Bushy beard, blue baseball cap, brown hair past his shoulders, green jacket, ratty jeans, he’s sort of scruffy, well, dirty. Um, trainers. Used to be white, now they’re just kind of brown. Some sort of dark bag or backpack.”

Sherlock grew very quiet as she spoke. “Uh, Molly,” he hedged, “I just realized I have something to tell you, and you have to promise you won’t get mad.”

“What is it now?” she replied, sighing.

“It’s just, with everything going on, I kind of forgot.” Nervously, he cleared his throat.

“Forgot what?”

“Well,” he said, with a hint of impatience, “how else was I supposed to keep an eye on you? Especially since you didn’t want to see me anymore, and with my insane sister’s tendency towards bomb threats and random murdering I couldn’t take that risk. I need you to be safe.” 

Even in the darkened car she could see a red flush creeping up his neck. She was suddenly furious as she put two and two together. “Christ, Sherlock! It was you and your homeless detective groupies, wasn’t it? You had me followed! Damn you! How could you do that and not tell me?” Without thinking, lashing out, she punched him, hard, on the shoulder. “I was scared shitless!”

He shied and the car swerved wildly for a second before he got it back under control. “Ow! No hitting! I…I meant to tell you, really, Molly. But like I said, I forgot. No defenses, my arse,” he muttered. “You punch like a…cow. Jesus!” He rubbed his shoulder which was stinging under the force of her blow.

She’d heard enough and her blood was boiling. More than two months of being needlessly terrified and now this. A red haze clouded her vision. “What does that even mean?” she yelled. “Are you calling me a cow? Let me out of this car, you bastard! I’m going back to London.” She opened the door only to see the asphalt whizzing by, mere centimeters away.

“Stop that!” he shouted. “Don’t jump out of a moving car!” Grabbing her wrist so she wouldn’t fall out, he quickly pulled over and turned off the ignition. He reached across, shut her door, grabbed her other wrist tightly, and gave her a firm little shake. “Don’t be a fool! Now you listen to me,” he growled, his eyes glittering fiercely. “I couldn’t take it if something happened to you. Do you understand? I meant what I said — I need you to be safe. I’d straight up murder anyone who tried to harm you. Knowing me is a dangerous thing and I won’t have you injured or killed because of it.”

It felt like his hands, holding her in a crushing iron grip, were burning her skin. Pain shot up her arms and into her hands but at the same time his passion, his intensity, sent a thrill through her. With a monumental effort she tamped that down. “You’re hurting me, Sherlock,” she hissed, glaring at him, squirming, twisting her wrists, trying to escape. “Let go!”

He instantly released her. “Sorry.” He clasped his knees with unsteady hands, trying to calm down, and took several deep breaths. “Sorry again,” he offered, softly. “I probably wouldn’t actually murder them, you know,” he muttered. “But I’m pretty good at menacing. It’s only…you scared me just now.” He rubbed his brow and briefly glanced at his shaking hand. “Listen, Molly, I don’t understand why I get so…worked up about you. You’ve gotten under my skin in a way I’ve never experienced before, and if you were anyone else I wouldn’t care about you at all. But your well-being is more important to me than my own life.” He gave her a beseeching glance.

She rubbed her sore wrists, crossed her arms, her body trembling, and stared straight ahead, still angry. “Murder tends to run in your family, doesn’t it?” she spit out. “I don’t know why I’m involved with you. All I wanted was a nice, simple life.”

“You’re not involved with me!” he fired back. “You’re involved with Greg even though you’re not suited and he’s too old for you. He must be 65 by now and ready for pensioning. He’s not the one, Molly. Plus, you’re far smarter than he is.”

“You know what I meant,” she said. “And he’s not 65! He’s in his 50s. Early…50s,” she corrected, sounding defensive. “Who is the one, then? I’m tired of waiting.”

He growled and rubbed his upper lip in agitation. “Me!” he said, aggravated. “I’m the one for you!” 

She didn’t respond and a silence ensued. In the deep darkness surrounding them, she could hear crickets chirping in the hedgerow outside her window. “You’re too late,” she finally responded, wearily.

“I’ll never accept that,” he said, firmly. “It’s never too late. Please, Molly. Stay.”

“I’m not a dog,” she muttered. “Or a cow.”

“I know you’re not,” he groaned. “I’m trying…have you ever been hit by a cow, Molly? They’re strong. Huge. They’ll flatten you. It was supposed to be a compliment!” 

“It didn’t sound like one,” she said. “Maybe equating women with farm animals isn’t a good idea.”

“I don’t…okay, fine,” he said, giving up. “Don’t stay.” He couldn’t figure out why she was being so antagonistic and his stomach tightened as it occurred to him that maybe this visit was a mistake. Clearly she hadn’t forgiven him yet and he was, again, mucking this up. Taking a deep breath he tried once more, softer this time. “It’s just…I wanted to show you this lovely country. Holsworthy is a stunning house and I thought girls — I mean women, of course — liked that sort of thing. Antiques and posh…draperies and…stuff.” He waved his hand around, vaguely. “And you needed to get out of London. Don’t give me that look, you haven’t had a proper holiday in almost two years and it’s making you short tempered.” 

“I am not short tempered!” she snapped.

He rolled his eyes and didn’t take the bait. “I thought you might like it here. It’s springtime, it’s beautiful, there’s flowers and shit. And I stupidly thought we could learn to be friends again…somehow, out in a neutral environment.” He started the car. “I guess it was too much to hope for. But you’ve got to spend at least one night at the house because there isn’t another train until tomorrow. Unless you want to spend the rest of the night alone, outside the station?” He looked at her and arched his eyebrow. “So, what’s it to be, Molly? Forward or back?”

She was thinking, beginning to feel some remorse for flying off the handle. He just made her so angry at times. “It’s a nice house?” she asked, after a pause.

“Very nice! It’s registered on one of those historic list…things. There’s people, tourists, traipsing through every weekend just to look at it. The library alone is worth the visit. Listen, Molly, I know I should have told you I got my homeless network to watch over you but I’ve had a bit to deal with recently and it slipped my mind. Baker Street got blown up, I now have a sister whom I didn’t know existed, Mycroft lied to me about some fairly important stuff, there’s been murders, deaths, Sarah’s accident, you…dumped me. It’s been hard. So excuse me for trying to make sure you’re safe.” He threw up his hands.

“You still should have told me,” she needled.

“Yes. I get that now,” he replied. “But I did it for you.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks, I guess. It was kind of sweet, now that I think about it.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed. “All that and _now_ you think it was sweet? Sometimes I find you rather mystifying, Molly. You really need to trust me more.”

“And you need to stop bossing me around so much, alright? It makes me feel stupid.”

“Stop acting stupid and I will,” he retorted.

“I am so going to kill you,” she said, under her breath. “I have scalpels, you know.” 

He snorted. “I’d like to see you try,” he scoffed.

“Sarah’s your old girlfriend, right?” she asked, changing tactics and trying to put him on the spot for a change.

“Yes.”

“Is she pretty?”

He thought carefully. “I would say she’s more beautiful than pretty. Are you jealous?” He tried to hide his smile.

“No,” she quickly bit out. “But I bet she’s a snob,” she added, cattily. 

Sherlock drew an even, calming breath. “She’s not a snob,” he said. “She’s a perfectly nice person and so is her entire family. Except for Harold. He’s a pompous twat. If anyone’s being a snob it’s you.” He winced, wondering if he was digging a deeper hole for himself, but he couldn’t help it. She was ticking him off.

Molly chose to ignore his jibe. “Her husband, Addison, recently died?”

“And her daughter, Beth,” he explained. “In a car accident in Scotland, 11, no, 12 weeks ago.”

“Why’d she dump you all those years ago?”

He glared at her. “Unlike some people, she didn’t dump me. It was a complicated situation and we were very young — hang on, how do you know about this?”

“John told me. Everything.” She eyed him significantly. “I know everything, Sherlock. I mean, he spilled all the beans,” she smirked before turning thoughtful. “He also yelled at me, a bit, for the way I treated you. He can be quite…stern, can’t he?”

“Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Why didn’t he just take out a full page ad in The Times? And there’s nothing worse than a tongue lashing by Dr. Watson,” he agreed. “He can be rather steely, when he gets up on his high horse. I’m familiar with that.” He gave her a sympathetic glance.

Molly snorted. And then she started laughing. She looked at him, giggling, and after a moment, he started laughing too. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, holding up her hands. “I’ll give in if you will. Can we stop this now? I’m sorry, I’m kind of…nervous and, I don’t know why but sometimes you bring out the worst in me. I do want a holiday in a country pile with you. And I want us to be friends and I’ll be very nice to your posh, _beautiful_ ex-lover.”

He looked at her. “Friends it is, then. Truce?” He stuck out his hand.

She nodded. “Truce.” They shook on it. “Can we go now?” she asked. “I’m really tired.”

He started driving. “Nick,” he said.

“What?”

“His name is Nick Papadakis.”

“Who is?”

“The scary, scruffy guy in the green coat. His name is Nick. He’s a good man; used to be police officer. Had a bad accident, lost his job, slid into homelessness. You’re safe with him. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks. That is good to know. And you’re going to tell him to stop following me, right?”

“Not a chance,” he chuckled.

“Sherlock!” she protested.

“Get over it, Molly.” His voice was flat, firm, and final.

“All right,” she grumpily agreed, feeling secretly pleased he was looking after her. “So, who lives in the house?”

“Well, there’s Sarah and her son, Scott. He’s sixteen. Beth’s twin. And her parents, Lady Anne and Lord Robert. They’re both in their mid-seventies. Robert hasn’t been well over the last year, he’s getting frail. I don’t think he’s long for this world, which is upsetting everyone, including the staff. Everybody likes him. He’s a really good person, despite some…conflicts we had years ago. I admire him very much. His death is going to hit them hard. They have two more daughters, a little older than Sarah, who live elsewhere, one in London and one in Paris.”

“What did he, Robert, do for a living?”

“He’s been involved in the wool trade. This whole area of Devon was a wool center for the past 600 years although the industry has been declining globally in recent years. Apparently sheep don’t pay well anymore.”

“Is that how the family made their money?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. The Holsteads have been in the wool industry for centuries. Robert’s project for the last few decades has been building the Wool Centre, a museum and clearing house in Okehampton for everything sheep related. Some of the locals sell their handcrafts in the gift shop so it’s a beneficial operation for the nearby villagers as well. He’s being assisted by his nephew Harold, his brother’s son, who moved to Holsworthy last year to help out after his father died.”

“What did…does Lady Anne do?”

“She smokes a lot of pot —and I mean a _lot_ — and she’s an arty type. She paints, gardens, plays piano, arranges flowers, dotes on Robert, floats around the house. Stuff like that. She’s very sweet, kind, and wise. Her insights, wherever they come from, really hit home at times. It almost makes me believe in intuition.”

“Do they have staff? Like Downton Abbey?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked. 

“It’s a show on the telly, Sherlock. It was huge a few years ago. All about an enormous country house and all the drama that goes on between its family and staff. Like a soap opera, like Upstairs, Downstairs.” He shook his head and shrugged. “How can you not have heard of them?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“I try to keep that kind of garbage from infiltrating my mind,” he said. “Waste of space on my hard drive. But…let’s see…there’s Cook and her three assistants, a bunch of men and women who keep the house clean and in repair, Philip and the groundskeeping staff, Jerome, the butler and his wife Nancy, the housekeeper. Oh, and there’s half a dozen people who run the tours on the weekends. They’re open Friday and Saturday. Most of the staff live in the village although a few live at the house. Mostly young women who are trying to get out from under their parent’s thumbs. I would guess there’s about 25 people who help keep the place running, although they hire on extra people from the village around the holidays. It’s an enormous enterprise, keeping one of these old dinosaurs ticking. No wonder so many of them have been turned over to the National Trust.”

“So it is like Downton Abbey,” she breathed, getting excited to see the house. “Are there murders and stuff? There’s always murders in big country houses.”

He gave her an amused look. “You watch too much telly,” he snickered as he made the turning onto the long, winding drive that snaked through the wooded park leading up to the house. They rounded a final curve and she got her first view of the stone mansion resting magnificently on a hill, the moor glowering mysteriously behind it. A nearly full moon hung over the house in a starry, cloudless sky, creating an extraordinary vision of gothic splendour.

“Wow! That’s impressive,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Thought you’d like it,” he said, smugly.

He stopped the car in the gravel car park, retrieved her bags, and led her into the house. Steering her by the elbow, he quickly walked her through the foyer with its double staircase, zig-zagged through a number of sitting rooms, down several narrow hallways and up a couple of steep, winding staircases. Molly was completely turned around and rather relieved when he opened the door to her bedroom and flicked on the light.

“It’s round!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely room! Look at that canopy bed!”

“Yes, we’re in one of the turrets,” he replied. “This is the yellow bedroom; Lady Anne thought you might like it when I told her this is your favorite colour. The loo is the next door down the hall on your left, and my bedroom, the blue bedroom, is two doors down from that if you need anything. I’ll leave you now. Are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks, Sherlock. I’m exhausted.” 

He nodded. “Sleep well. Sweet dreams, Molly,” he said. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, changed his mind, and instead awkwardly patted her shoulder before he left.

She opened her suitcase, took out her nightgown and toiletries, and went to brush her teeth, wash her face, and put up her hair. Finally, crawling into the large, soft bed, she quickly fell fast asleep.

***


	12. Introductions

**Introductions**

_Well, hello there  
My it's been a long, long time  
How am I doin'?  
Oh, I guess that I'm doin' fine  
It's been so long now but it seems now  
That it was only yesterday  
Gee, ain't it funny how time slips away  
How's your new love  
I hope that she's doin' fine  
I heard you told her that you'd love her till the end of time  
Now that's the same thing that you told me, seems like just the other day  
Gee, ain't funny how time slips away_

  


Molly woke up the next morning to the warming sensation of a small, round body tucked in behind the crook of her knees and for a few disorientating moments she thought it was Toby and that she was in her flat in London. Then her head cleared and she remembered she was in the country, so what was that in her bed? She sat up to find a large, gorgeous long-haired white cat with one blue eye and one gold eye staring at her.

“Hello,” she said. “Who are you?” The cat stretched, pushing one leg straight out in front of her, yawned, and slowly blinked. “You’re beautiful!” Molly exclaimed, gathering her up in her arms. “How did you get in here?” She looked at the door and found it was open a few inches. “Either you can open doors or you’re magical,” she told the cat, petting her. Her visitor purred, rumbling peaceably.

She gazed around her room having been too tired last night to properly take it in. It was a bright, happy bedroom, done in the Chinoiserie style, with imperial yellow silk wallpaper hand painted with branches, twisting vines, fantastical flowers, and colourful birds which resembled small parrots adorning the walls. There was a dresser, a wardrobe, a small vanity and a standing floor length mirror along one wall done in antique bamboo which completed the style and for contrast, a small blue velvet armchair nestled along one wall, perfect for reading or window gazing. 

She pushed the gold brocade coverlet away, got up, and looked out one of the two window that overlooked the lawn and a garden close to the house. A large cedar tree grew so close to her window she could almost reach out and touch it, and she turned away to get ready for the day lest she start having romantic ideas about a certain Romeo climbing it to enter her bedchamber and steal her heart away. It was all so perfect and beautiful; she felt like she was in a fairy story.

“I hate to say goodbye,” she told the cat who had curled up on the bed again and closed her eyes, “but I’ve got to try to find some breakfast through the maze of this house.”

She got dressed and as she opened her door fully she found a piece of red yarn tied to her door handle with a note taped to it that read ”breakfast,” in Sherlock’s hand. The yarn stretched away down the hallway. After finishing her morning ablutions she untied the yarn and began winding it up as she moved down the hall.

Curious about what Sherlock’s room looked like, she paused outside his door and on a whim, knocked lightly. There was no answer, so she slowly turned the handle. “Sherlock?” she called. He wasn’t in there, so she stepped in and began to look around. “Wow,” she breathed at the splendour, a little envious of the wealth.

His bedroom was huge, almost the size of her entire living room in London, richly done in deep shades of azure blue and forest green, with highlights of gold throughout. The dark blue linen wallpaper was scattered with small, gold fleur-de-lis and a thick area rug covered the central portion of the dark mahogany flooring. His enormous four-poster was up on a stepped platform, the bed rumpled and unmade, revealing cobalt satin sheets and coverings of blue and gold brocade covered with leafy acanthus designs which matched the window treatments. 

In the center of the wall opposite the door was a large fireplace flanked by a series of narrow, gothic style windows with window seats which overlooked the lawn, and two dark green leather club chairs situated in front to catch the warmth. On the mahogany mantelpiece stood a line of small reproductions of the Chinese terra cotta warriors and over in one corner stood a nearly life-sized terra cotta horse from the same Chinese tomb. 

A large, finely crafted painting of the English countryside in the style of Constable hung on one wall, replete with red and white cows grazing in the grassy foreground and a derelict stone mill in the back, serene, puffy clouds gracing a wonderfully blue sky. 

Hanging over the dresser was a modern portrait of a young woman from the 1960s. She had mischievous blue eyes and an impish demeanor, standing on an expansive lawn in a sleeveless, flowered shift holding a few fresh daisies in her hands. A Golden Retriever sat nobly at her feet. She looked a lot like Sherlock, Molly thought, and then she remembered John had told her Mrs. Holmes had visited this house many times in her youth. The family must have had this painting commissioned during one of those visits. She studied the portrait carefully for a while, seeing a lot of Sherlock’s puckish personality in the young woman before she turned away to inspect the rest of the room.

Matching carved mahogany wardrobe and dressers occupied the wall near the en suite which looked to be sheathed in marble. A high, wooden coffered ceiling enhanced the richness of the room and a few large orchid plants with dark, strappy leaves and bold white blossoms were placed strategically around, softening the strong masculinity of the décor. The entire room was sumptuous beyond belief, aged into sophisticated beauty over time.

She moved over to his nightstand to check out his bedtime reading material. He appeared to be halfway through L. Stratmann’s _The Secret Poisoner: A Century of Murder_ , which was lying open and face down. She smiled at his choice; only Sherlock could be lulled to sleep by horrific accounts of murder and mayhem. She picked it up to see where he was in it and another book was revealed, hidden underneath, the book he was actually reading. It was T. Erickson’s _Surrounded by Idiots_. 

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, she began to leaf through the pages. Apparently it was a self help book! Something about identifying other people’s personality and communication styles through a color code and learning to be kinder with targeted interactions adapted to each style. Shaking her head in wonder she put the books back exactly as they had been before and returned to her trail of yarn. 

Unbelievable, she thought, as she moved down the hallway, winding up the yarn as she went along. Why would he be reading a self help book? Not only did the entire genre make him furious, she was positive he didn’t think he needed any help, that he thought himself perfect. Once in Waterstones she’d been subject to a very public and embarrassing rant regarding an entire wall of books written for what he’d loudly described as “insecure and overly introspective imbeciles.” How the mighty have fallen, she giggled to herself.

As she wound her way through the house she occasionally poked her head into various rooms. Little studies, parlors, workrooms, rooms for crafts, rooms for reading, rooms for daydreaming. She hoped she’d have time to come back later and explore. They were all filled with such interesting stuff.

Finally, she reached the end of the red yarn. Standing outside the breakfast room, she could hear the clink of china, of fork against plate as well as the low murmur of conversation.

“How do you always win?” she overheard Sherlock complain.

“I cheat,” a cultured woman’s voice responded calmly.

“Yes, but so do I!” he replied. They both burst into helpless giggles.

Taking a deep breath, Molly entered and stood shyly in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. A strong smell of pot filled the air.

“Sherlock, this must be your Molly,” an older woman sitting near him said, with a nod of her head.

That must be Lady Anne, she thought.

Sherlock looked up from the breakfast table, put down his playing cards, and passed the joint back to the woman sitting at the end of the table. They were apparently engaged in a game of Gin Rummy.

“Molly!” he said, jumping up and crossing the room. He was wearing jeans and a pastel pink button down this morning, the feminine colour somehow making him look even more masculine, more attractive. “Good morning. Let me introduce you to the family.” He tucked his arm into hers and drew her over to the table.

She pressed the large ball of red yarn into his hands she glanced around the room. “Thanks for this,” she smiled. “I would have been wandering this enormous house until dinner if you hadn’t been so clever.” 

The breakfast room was light and airy, done in pale green and soft white with a large, deep tufted Aubusson rug under the long table and Impressionistic paintings of fruits and flowers on the walls. A bank of floor to ceiling windows let in shafts of morning light, framed by heavy draperies in dark green velvet and trimmed with elaborate white passementerie.

He grinned at her and led her to stand in front of an older man, buried behind a newspaper, at the opposite end of the table from the woman. “Molly, I’d like you to meet Lord Robert Sharpe,” he said, putting the yarn on the table. “Robert, this is my friend, Dr. Molly Hooper.” There was a certain bashfulness in the way he said ‘my friend’ that made a pleasant warmth spread through her midsection.

“How do you do,” she said, extending her hand.

“Oh, hullo,” he returned, dropping his newspaper into his lap and taking her hand. “Welcome to Holsworthy.” Robert had hazel coloured eyes, a thick shock of messily arranged salt and pepper hair, a thin dark mustache, and a calm, elegant ease to his slender frame. He seemed to be in his mid-to-late seventies and, despite a number of lines creasing his face, he still retained his good looks. Dressed in tweeds with a warm pullover cardigan under his jacket along with a silk ascot at his neck, he was the picture of a country lord. His walking cane was hooked over the edge of the table. As Molly took his hand she felt the frailty of his grasp and silently noted his pale complexion and slight palsy. “Please make yourself at home,” he continued. “Anything you need, anything at all, just ask. This young man can show you around.” He waved carelessly in Sherlock’s direction. “Happy to have you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” she returned. “That’s very kind of you.”

Sherlock pulled her farther into the room towards the other end of the table where the older woman was collecting the playing cards from the table, tapping them into a neat stack. She was only several years younger than her husband, strikingly handsome and rather commanding, tall and willowy, her posture straight and firm. Her snowy white hair was piled into a fluffy Gibson Girl type bun on top of her head, acting as an arresting counterpoint to her raven dark brows. A high-necked flowing caftan made her appear even taller and more stately and Molly, with more than a little trepidation, was reminded of the beautiful, cruel witch in the Narnia stories. The woman rose and gazed intently at Molly with steady grey eyes as they approached.

“This is Lady Anne Holstead Sharpe,” Sherlock said. For some reason Molly curtsied and then blushed furiously, not knowing why she’d done that.

“Hullo, my dear,” Anne began. “Why, you’re positively beautiful!” she exclaimed, taking her by the shoulders and turning her a little to have a better look. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected less,” she added, dryly, giving Sherlock a little wink. “Not from Sherlock. He only draws rare people to him. You are very welcome to Holsworthy, Molly. I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

“T-thank you,” Molly stuttered, her fingers weaving together. “I’m sure I shall.” She felt a little intimidated surrounded by all these elegant, cultured people in this gorgeous house. 

Anne’s features softened, setting Molly at ease and instantly dispelling the witch notion. “Oh, don’t be nervous! We’re all harmless. The only one who bites is Sarah and she sleeps until noon,” she laughed. “But she’s easily placated with a kindly compliment.”

“And a load of opioids,” Sherlock added. 

“You’re one to talk,” Anne said with a significant look, sitting back down. “Now, Molly, help yourself to breakfast. It’s laid every day until 9:30, but there’s always snacks and whatnot which Cook makes available throughout the day, mostly for the staff and day workers who wander through looking for sustenance. We don’t have luncheon, just soups and sandwiches, usually laid out around one for a few hours. And there’s always a tea trolley in the library just before midday. Dinner is at 8 p.m. in the formal dining room but we normally gather for cocktails and a bit of nosh in the crimson drawing room off the library an hour prior. And Cook always leaves out midnight munchies for when one simply must have a sweetie in the middle of the night. I don’t think you’ll go hungry,” she smiled. “This is Scott, my grandson. Scott, say hello,” she prodded.

A tall, gangly young man with shaggy blond hair and large brown eyes looked up at her. He seemed to be all eyes and Molly could see they were shot through with sorrow and pain. Poor boy, she thought, losing his father and his twin all at once. “Hullo,” he said, before turning his attention back to his phone.

“Hello,” Molly returned.

“He’s been having a rough time of it,” Anne whispered. 

“I can hear you,” Scott said, not taking his eyes off his phone. “It’s been hard, but I’m okay, Nana. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“My poor grandson,” Anne continued. “He needs lots of love right now but like all young men and some older ones who should know better,” she flashed a glare at Sherlock, “he won’t tolerate it. They think they’re above affection, that it’s girlish. Well, I’ve been working on him and he’s softening. I’ll show him yet,” she finished, firmly.

“You all need love right now,” Molly said, gently. “You’ve been through…I mean, you’re in the middle of a terrible situation. Everyone has their own way of coping, don’t you find? Some folks clump up during a tragedy, others find alone time more helpful.”

Anne cocked her head at her and smiled. “Ah,” she noted. “You have an insightful mind and a caring, heartfelt energy. I like that. Maybe you can help us, we need it badly! Now, this is Harold Sharpe, my husband’s nephew. He’s here to…assist my husband,” she said, as if it was a sacrifice to admit it. “He just returned from a Japan a few days ago. We’re so…pleased to have him back.”

Harold, his mouth full of sausages, gave her a quick nod. “Glad to meet you,” he managed to say around the pork. He was in his early 50s, Molly reckoned, and he could stand to take off a stone or two. He wore an expensive but ill-fitting suit and he was attempting to hide his encroaching baldness with a careful combover. He had small, sharp, closely set dark eyes. There was something unpleasant about him, she thought, but then remembered it wasn’t nice to make judgments based solely on appearance.

“C’mon, Molly,” Sherlock said, pulling on her arm. “Food.” They went over to the beautifully carved oak sideboard, which was loaded with silver platters piled high with eggs, meats, fresh fruit, and various breakfast breads. Three large dogs were lying underneath the table, waiting patiently for Robert to finish and hoping for spillage. Sherlock held the silver cloches for her whilst she chose. “Sit here,” he instructed. “Next to me. Aperitif?” he said, offering her the joint as they settled into their chairs.

She shook her head and gave him a look. “It’s a bit early for me. But I would love some coffee.” Sherlock got up and went to pour her a cup.

“Harold, what were you doing in Japan?” she inquired.

“There’s a number of ranchers I visit two or three times a year,” he explained. “I’m helping them develop a new breed of sheep for wool production. Japan used to be quite a large exporter of fine wool but the industry has died away. A few men are trying to revive it before it disappears completely.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Molly noted. “What an interesting thing to be involved with!”

Harold shrugged, didn’t respond, took a large bite out of his toast, and slurped his coffee.

“You’re here just in time for the spring blossoms,” Anne informed her. “Everything was so late this year I wondered if they were going to bloom at all! Antheia must have been sleeping in, or perhaps I was late with my offering this year.”

“One of the Grecian Graces,” Sherlock whispered to Molly as he set down her coffee. “Goddess of flowers.”

“I hope you didn’t mind sleeping in the turret,” Anne continued, whilst Molly began to eat. “I know it’s a bit small, but it is a rather charming room.”

“Oh, no, it’s lovely,” Molly replied. “Comfortable and cozy. Although I had a unexpected visitor last night.”

Sherlock blinked and Anne looked at her quizzically.

“A large white cat with odd eyes,” Molly explained, grinning. “She seems like a sweetheart. I found her snuggled up to me this morning.”

Anne laughed. “Oh, that’s Boudicca! She’s a scamp. Loves sneaking around and making a nuisance of herself. I hope she didn’t bother you much. But you like cats, Molly? We have about a dozen who wander the house but Boudicca is the most friendly of the lot. You can always tell a quality person by their interest in our feline friends,” she proclaimed.

Sherlock snorted and Molly, ignoring his disdain, launched into a detailed description of Toby, complete with his favorite type of food and toys and his idiosyncratic habits — grooming her hair whilst she slept — as well as his inclination towards biting when he got excited.

“I have a cat,” Scott offered, quietly, after she finished. “Back home.”

“Do you?” Molly asked with interest. “I’d love to hear about him. Or her?”

Scott started describing his cat and, encouraged by Molly’s easy, friendly questions, soon he was talking animatedly about his love of animals of all kinds and his desire to become a veterinarian. Anne looked pleased and started studying Molly more carefully.

“I hope you will become a vet,” Molly told the young man. “It seems like a perfect fit for your personality and interests. Medicine is always a rewarding field. Very satisfying.”

“Barley there,” Anne said, pointing at the black lab, “cut his paw on a sharp stone last week and Scott did such a careful, gentle job cleaning and wrapping it up, didn’t you, Scott?” The young man turned instantly shy and flushed, but nodded.

“Good for you!” Molly added. “That takes skill.”

He looked happy at her pronouncement. “You’re a doctor, right?” he asked. 

“I’m a pathologist,” she replied. At his blank look she added, “I do autopsies — postmortems — and try to figure out how people died. There’s a lot of chemistry involved.”

“You cut up dead bodies? For a living?” She nodded. “That is so cool!” Scott gushed. 

“What drew you to pathology, Molly?” Anne asked.

Molly bit her lip, thinking. “Anatomy, first off. What amazing creatures we are just from a mechanical standpoint. Look how beautifully everything works together, down to the smallest cells, and the incredible functionality we have which lasts for decades. What a miracle! Except some things are poorly designed and tend to wear out before the whole unit expires.”

“Knees,” Anne said, nodding. “Dreadful design.”

“Prostates,” Robert added from behind his newspaper. Sherlock almost choked on his coffee. “You’ll find out, young man,” he added, ominously. “Let’s run this tiny tube through the middle of this other thing that swells as you get older,” he added, sarcastically. “What could possibly go wrong? Stupid idea. I’m going to have a few words with my creator when I stand before him.”

“Exactly my argument on why there is no god,” Molly stated, with a grin. “Who would design such a thing on purpose? Oh,” she went on, seeing the shocked expression on Anne’s face. “Erm, sorry. Didn’t mean to get religious.”

“Appalling notion,” Harold muttered.

“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” Sherlock said, trying to kick her under the table and missing.

“Anyway, to be less controversial, I guess I’ve been chasing the spark of life throughout my career,” she continued, with a shrug. “Only starting from the other end of things. I’ve always been fascinated with what animates us. I mean, one minute you can be running around talking and drinking coffee and the next minute you’re lifeless. What leaves? What makes us breathe, grow, learn things and have warm hearted feelings? We even have the ability to think about thinking, which is incredible when you think about it,” she laughed. “No other creature that I know of has such a brain as we. Is it all just electricity or is there something else?”

“Frankenstein had the same questions,” Sherlock noted. 

She gave him a look. “I’ve never wanted to stitch a bunch of body parts together and run a current through them, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said. “That sort of thing would be your department. Didn’t you electrocute a bunch of eyeballs recently?”

“That was a legitimate experiment,” he countered.

“I’m sure that’s exactly what Frankenstein told himself,” she laughed. “But I do love chemistry,” she added.

“I think I’ll be good at medicine but I need to work on my chemistry,” Scott shyly admitted.

“You have a perfect tutor right here,” Molly said, patting Sherlock’s arm. “He’ll be glad to help you, I’m sure, and I’ve heard your grandfather installed a very nice little lab somewhere in this enormous house.”

“How do you know about that?” Sherlock asked.

“John told me. Remember, he told me everything, Sherlock,” she winked. 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be glad to help you anytime, Scott,” he said, sincerely. “The lab got partly blown up a number of years ago but I’m sure we can make do,” he chuckled. 

“Blown up?” Scott asked, a little dubious. “How did that happen?” 

“Your mum and I were trying to distill some moonshine from potato peelings we’d stolen from the kitchen,” Sherlock said, “but we assembled the still incorrectly. We’d been reading about the Appalachian region of America but remember this was pre-Google so we had no clue how to do it properly. Or,” he mused, “maybe the parts we, uh, borrowed from Cook weren’t meant for that use, couldn’t stand the pressure. By the way, your other cook,” he said over his shoulder to Anne, “was less forgiving than this one. She paddled my arse thoroughly.”

Scott’s eyes were wide as he listened. “How old were you?”

“I was nine, your mum was eight.”

“You’re kidding!” he declared. Sherlock looked at him from under his brows and shook his head, a sly smile spreading across his features. “That is so dope!” Scott said, getting up to leave. As he pushed in his chair he added, “I’ll go ask Cook to save the next batch of potato peelings.”

“Corn works, too!” Sherlock shouted at his retreating back.

“I remember that day you scoundrel, you scared everyone half to death and you’re still incorrigible,” Anne reprimanded with a twinkle in her eye. “But if it helps him, I’d gladly blow up this entire house. I won’t have him spending the rest of his life in despair and mourning.”

“Bloody well right, my dear,” Robert called from down the table. “Burn it down if we need to, although…that would probably be counter effective,” he trailed off, his practicality kicking in. He folded up his newspaper and left it on the table. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make to the Wool Centre. They’re having a spot of trouble with the new exhibit on sheep breeds.” He took his cane, whistled sharply to the dogs who got up and followed him, and went out.

“And what are you doing today, Harold?” Anne asked.

“Got a visit to the Ellington farm today,” Harold explained. “Up near Barnstaple. They’re preparing for shearing next week and I thought I’d have a gander at their operation. Be gone most of the day.”

“Good,” Anne said, crisply. “Have a nice time.” He left, too, happily whistling a tuneless tune, and she seemed to visibly relax. “I don’t like that man,” she confessed, relighting her blunt. “He holds terrible energy. But he has been helpful to my darling Robert over the last year so I suppose he’s to be tolerated. What are your thoughts, Sherlock?” She clearly wanted him to concur.

He shrugged. “He’s an arrogant arsehole, but I don’t think he has malignant intent. He’s not smart enough for that. He’s just an unpleasant person. Rough. No manners or finesse.”

Anne sighed. “I don’t like aggressive, ignorant inclinations like that in the house. His aura is almost menacing. Bad vibes tend to spread and I won’t have this oasis contaminated. Not whilst we’re all on emotional tenterhooks.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Sherlock offered. “Be glad to.” He unconsciously clenched his fist.

“No. Not yet. No punching the relatives, dear. If I get a different, more worrisome vibe off him I’ll let you know,” she replied. “Now, you’ll show Molly the house this morning, yes?” He nodded. “And no more yarn trails strung about. The maid tripped over it this morning and nearly tumbled down the stairs,” she admonished, sternly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, chastised. 

She leaned forward and patted his hand, softening her reprimand. “Molly, he knows more than anyone else about this house. When he was 14 he found a secret passage off the library no one knew about. He can tell you everything. Well, I’m off to paint. See you later.” She rose gracefully and swept out of the room. There was a short silence whilst Sherlock studied Molly’s reaction.

“She’s…terrifying,” Molly admitted, her eyes wide. “I mean, what a lovely, kind woman but somehow I’m completely intimidated.” 

“She does give off that vibe,” he chuckled. “Her aura is very strong.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’re making fun but you know what I mean.”

“Fierce is the word you’re looking for,” he said. “She’s like a lioness guarding her cubs, at least she is in this house. Outside her realm she’s less…imperious. She rules Holsworthy with an iron fist but she’s so kind and charming that no one seems to mind.”

“Robert seems nice,” she mused. “Sweet old guy.”

“Yes, he is. And you were wonderful with Scott. So, Molly, shall we tour?” She nodded and they got up. “We’ll take the lift up to the top and work our way down,” he said.

“There’s a lift? In a house?” she asked as they walked along. They stopped in front of a tiny square in a hallway, barely a meter on each side, about the size of a dumbwaiter. He opened the decoratively forged wrought iron doors and stepped in, squashing himself into the corner to make room. “Tha—that’s not a lift,” she said, shaking her head and stepping back. It looked incredibly unsafe. “That’s a death trap. Let’s take the stairs.”

“C’mon, Molly,” he said. “It’s perfectly safe. Every lift has a mechanical safety feature — invented by Elisha Otis in 1852 — so it can’t possibly fall, even an old rattletrap like this one. See?” He jumped up and down, hard, a few times. The cage clattered threateningly and she backed up another step, her eyes wide. Impatiently, he leaned out, grabbed her arm, pulled her inside, shut the doors, and pushed the lever forward.

She was smashed up against his firm body as the creaky old machinery began to raise them up. There were some scary screeching and banging sounds coming from above as the gears turned and the counterweight descended. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.

He gave a rumbling laugh and she was so close she could feel it through his chest. “This was installed by Anne’s grandmother when she got old,” he explained. “Talk about a nasty person. When I knew her she was pushing 100 and mean as a snake. Sarah and I would roller skate indoors when the weather was too wet to be outdoors and she’d scream at us and use her cane to trip us up. Said we were wearing out her floors. Christ, I was never so happy as when she died,” he admitted. “Was that wrong of me?” 

Molly wasn’t listening — she was frozen in terror and a tiny bit distracted being so near to him. He smelled rather nice. Just then there was a loud bang, the cage shuddered, nearing throwing her off her feet, and they came to a shaky stop. She screamed and threw her arms around his waist. “I don’t want to die!” she cried, clutching at him.

“You’re not going to die,” he chuckled. “It does this all the time.” He opened and closed the doors, whammed the lever back and forth a few times, and kicked a certain spot on the wall. They started moving again. “Although I wouldn’t mind dying so much, Molly, if I could be in your arms when it happens.”

She pushed away from him as much as she was able and looked up into his eyes. “Don’t start. Please,” she said. “We agreed.”

“I never agreed to anything of the sort,” he replied, mildly. She bit her lip and didn’t respond, not wanting to get into it with him on her first morning. They rode the rest of the way in silence, reached the top, and got out. “So, Molly,” he said, “look out these windows and tell me what you see.”

They were in the dormers — rooms for the live-in staff tucked under the gables of the house, tiny and serviceable. However, she noted, the wide hallway was welcoming, sporting a few side tables along the walls set with flowers and bowls of fresh fruit and little sitting areas with comfy chairs for the staff to relax and chat in, after hours. There were even a few pictures hung on the walls. They were standing in front of a series of clerestory windows which let in enough light to brighten the otherwise dim hallway.

She glanced out the window. “Well, there’s hills and trees, part of a garden, and a bunch of sky.”

Sherlock huffed. “You see but you don’t observe,” he growled. “Try again. Think about why I brought you up here and what you might glean from this view.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding, looking out the windows again. “Okay. I get it. All right, I can see part of the gravel car park below. There’s the Morgan you drove us in last night. That means this is the front of the house so…we’re facing west, which means the moor is behind us and Okehampton is…north, off to the right, through that woods.” 

He nodded. “Yes. Good. What else?”

“Um, oh, and to the left there’s what looks like a shiny blue ribbon over there. A stream! That comes out of the moor, doesn’t it? To the right of the car park is a formal garden, right under us. I can’t quite see close to the house from this angle, though. And there’s an interestingly shaped tree over there at the edge of the park, that kind of looks like a Dr. Seuss tree.”

“That’s a Cedar of Lebanon. It’s nearly 400 years old. Anne named that tree Aldous,” he informed her.

“For Aldous Huxley?” she replied, giggling. “The psychedelic mystic? I love his writings!”

“Yup. The same man who wrote _Brave New World_ and _Doors of Perception_. She met him when she was very young and he’s had a large influence on her worldview. He came here once and picnicked under that tree in the 1920s. There’s one quote of his I particularly like.”

“‘Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored?’” she offered.

“Nope. ‘Maybe this world is another planet’s hell,’” he smiled.

“I actually thought it was going to be, ‘After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music,’” she said, smiling warmly at him. 

“Well, that, too,” he conceded softly. “Now, Molly, if you ever get turned around in this labyrinth of a house, look out the nearest window and you can re-orientate yourself that way. We’ll wander around for a while but if you can find the library you’ll be in good shape. Most of the household revolves around that area and a few nearby sitting rooms. C’mon.”

“Hey, Sherlock, is that really a portrait of your mother in your bedroom?” she asked as they went down the stairs. He stopped halfway down a step and arched an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to realize her mistake. “What?” she said, turning to look up at him.

“You’ve been in my room,” he replied, trying not to grin. 

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “Oops. Well, not much. I just stuck my head in to see what it looked like as I passed by. It’s a sumptuous room, Sherlock.”

“Rather a long neck to see such a small portrait on the far wall,” he winked. “But yes, it is a nice room and yes again, that is my mother.”

“She’s very beautiful,” she offered. “You have her eyes. And her sense of mischief, I think.”

A strange expression fell across his features as he gazed at her. “You’ve never met her, have you,” he realized. “They’re stopping here for a few days next week on their way to St. Austell in Cornwall. More of their line dancing,” he groaned. “They’ve found a _group_. Well, this is going to be an interesting week,” he grimaced as they set off again. Molly giggled at his discomfiture.

They spent the next two hours exploring the house, the parlours, library, various sitting rooms, studies, smoking room, the conservatory, as well as a brief tour of the surrounding gardens, the nearby lake, and the cold, rushing stream that flowed out of the moor. 

There seemed to a separate room for everything — rooms to clean the shoes in, rooms for ironing and mending, and an entire room just to store the family’s traveling trunks and suitcases. There was even a Great Hall which doubled as a ballroom in less mournful times. Sherlock regaled her with descriptions of the last great Christmas ball he’d attended here, two years ago.

There were many corridors which snaked through the house and lots of little steps that went up to a landing and then down again and off in another direction. Molly was happily overwhelmed by the beauty and age of it all. It seemed in almost every room there were more than a few gorgeous marble or bronze sculptures, precious antique Sevres vases or other impressive historical items, along with dozens of paintings — some ponderous and important, some whimsical and amusing — gracing the walls. They even had several suits of armour complete with shields and enormous swords which stood sentry at the top of the double staircase overlooking the foyer.

As in every house that has witnessed the centuries pass the contents were an eclectic mixture of ancient, antique and modern, but Lady Anne had cleverly juxtaposed her artifacts to create a unique impact on the viewer around every corner. Molly loved it all and Sherlock, exhibiting a proud tone of adopted ownership, thoroughly enjoyed showing her everything.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Sherlock is reading: T. Erickson’s Surrounded by Idiots, is an actual self help book. Doesn’t it fit him perfectly? 😂


	13. A Small Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was posted on my works last year as a submission to some Sherlolly week or something (I can’t really remember). However, I changed a little bit to better fit into this story, so you should at least skim through it. 😃👍🏼

**A Small Adventure**

_I fall to pieces  
Each time I see you again  
I fall to pieces  
How can I be just your friend?  
You want me to act like we've never kissed  
You want me to forget  
Pretend we've never met  
And I've tried and I've tried  
But I haven't yet  
You walk by and I fall to pieces  
Each time someone speaks your name  
I fall to pieces  
Time only adds to the flame  
You tell me to find someone else to love  
Someone who love me too  
The way you used to do  
But each time I go out with someone new  
You walk by and I fall to pieces_

Two hours later they were wandering arm in arm through the long portrait gallery on the second floor upon whose walls hung magnificent paintings of the Holstead antecedents dressed in their sartorial splendor and looking grandly dour. Sherlock had been making up funny little stories about the people as they strolled along and he had Molly giggling helplessly. Suddenly, they heard someone whistling, briskly approaching them from the opposite direction. 

“Christ, it’s Harold!” Sherlock groaned, looking around for an escape route. “What a boor!” He grabbed Molly’s elbow and rushed her along the corridor, making a sharp right turn into a shadowy alcove alongside the large staircase near the end of the hallway. He pulled open a heavy oak door under the stairs, pushed her inside ahead of him, and held the door nearly closed. “There’s something about that guy. Every time I see him I want to punch him in the face,” he muttered.

“I thought he was going to Barnstaple,” she whispered.

“Must have changed his mind,” he whispered back. “He probably went back to bed. Lazy bastard.”

It was dark inside and Molly couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. “Is there a light?” she asked.

“There’s a lamp on the table, further in,” he replied, his ear pressed against the narrow slit in the door.

She put her hands out in front of her and slowly began to shuffle forward. A few seconds later there was a loud sound of smashing pottery and the unique *poof* of a breaking light bulb, followed by a small, blue sizzle of electricity. “Shit,” she said. “I think I found the lamp. Is there another?”

“No. Never mind,” he replied. “Come back. You’ll bash your head on the stairs.” He stretched out his hand to guide her, and was puzzled when his palm was filled with something soft, warm, and round. Curious, he gave it a squeeze, trying to figure out why her shoulder was so pliable. Molly squeaked and he instantly withdrew his hand. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbled, grateful for the darkness which hid his burning cheeks.

“I haven’t been felt up in a closet since I was sixteen,” she giggled, moving closer to him. “He must be gone by now,” she said, finding his arm and clutching the sleeve of his shirt. “Can we go?”

“Um,” he said, hesitantly. “Molly? Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Oh, Christ,” she replied, dryly. “What is it this time?”

He sensed a certain tension in her tone. “When you bro— I mean, when the lamp got broken, I was a little startled and I accidentally let go of the door.”

“Yes? And?”

“It shut.”

“Yes?” Her voice was getting irritated.

“And it locked,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s locked,” he repeated.

“I heard you the first time!” she snapped.

“Then why did you ask me to repeat it?” he responded, confused.

“I meant ‘what’ in the way you do when you mean _what the actual fuck_.” Her voice was getting shrill. “Did you really just lock us in a closet?”

“Oh,” he said, nodding, “this isn’t a closet. It’s a reading nook. It’s really nice, I thought you might like it. Good place to escape to when there’s too many people.”

“I don’t care if it’s Lady Godiva’s bath! Get me out of here!”

“Usually there’s a key,” he muttered, bending over and feeling around the floor. “Dammit, it must be on the other side. Who the hell moved the key?”

“Sherlock,” she said, taking a deep breath and trying to stay calm. “I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that I have an irrational fear of dark, enclosed spaces.” He straightened up and she found his upper arm, grabbing it with both hands.

“Okay,” he said, rattling the door handle and pushing, to no avail. He pounded on the door with the side of his fist. “Hello there!” he bellowed. “Let us out!” 

Silence. Harold had apparently wandered outside of the sound of his voice.

“Sherlock! I mean it!” she hissed. “This is freaking me out! It’s pitch black in here!”

“Calm down,” he said. “You’re all right. There’s nothing to get worked up about.”

Her hands around his bicep tightened. “Don’t tell me to calm down when we’re locked in a fucking closet!” she shrieked. Her grip was cutting off the circulation in his arm.

“Reading nook,” he corrected. “Stand back, Molly. I’m going to force it.”

Not willing to let go of him entirely, she moved behind him, firmly clutching the back of his shirt.

Sherlock hurled himself at the door, only to smash his shoulder against the thick, unyielding oak. There was a ripping sound as his shirt tore where she was grabbing it. On the front side, two buttons, unable to withstand the strain, popped off and made little plinking sounds when they hit the hardwood floor. “Ow! Shit!” he yelled. 

“Oops,” she said, letting go of him. “Did you get the door?”

“No, I didn’t get it!” he snapped, rubbing his shoulder. “I hurt myself. This door and the jamb must be two inches of solid wood. Jesus, Molly,” he muttered, feeling the damage to his shirt. There was a large hole in the back and the front was now hanging open. “Are you _trying_ to tear my clothes off?”

“No. Of course not. That was an accident,” she said in a small voice. “Sorry. Listen, why don’t I brace you and you kick it,” she suggested.

“Okay,” he agreed. She put both hands on his back and spread her feet apart, leaning forward into him.

“Go,” she said. He kicked as hard as he could once, twice, and on the third kick the force of it made his his foot slip. He lost his balance and fell backwards, knocking her over. They both tumbled to the floor, him on top, her pinned underneath. Grunting, he floundered around like a turtle on its back, trying to get righted without squishing her whilst she pushed at him. “Get off me!” she shouted. 

“Stop shoving! You’re not helping!” he yelled. Rolling to the side, he managed to struggle to his feet. “Give me your hand,” he said, as he felt around for it in the dark and helped her up. “Got any other bright ideas?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to suppress his laughter.

She was not amused. “Can’t you…I don’t know, pick the lock or something?”

“With what?” he retorted. “All I’ve got are the _rags_ I’m now wearing. I forgot to bring my lock-picking tools,” he added, sarcastically. “I hadn’t planned on getting shut in a closet.”

“Reading nook,” she corrected. “I know! Use a bobby pin.”

“I don’t have a bobby pin, Molly. Do you?” His voice ticked up with a sliver of hope.

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t a helpful suggestion, was it? Normally I love a locked room mystery, but it’s a bit different when you’re the one locked in,” he mused. “What to do, what to do…”

“Hinges!” she suggested. “Take the pins from the hinges!”

“They’re on the other side,” he explained, patiently. “The door opens out, remember?”

“Okay,” she said, thinking. “I’ve got it! Use the broken pottery shards from the lamp to carve a hole near the lock!”

Dead silence greeted her for a good ten seconds. “I…I don’t…I…I can’t…even believe that just came out of your mouth,” he finally managed, in disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in weeks, and I talked to Harold only this morning.”

“Oh, god,” she wailed, losing it completely. “We can’t get out! And there’s no one in this part of the house! There’s no air! We’re trapped! We’re going to die!”

He snorted. “There’s plenty of air and we’re not going to die.”

“How do you know?” she screeched. “In twenty five years someone’s going to come along and find our rotting corpses in here! I can sense my imminent demise!”

“Your demise is not imminent,” he chuckled.

“No, but yours is,” she growled, “if you don’t get me the fuck out of here! Oh, god!”

He could tell by the currents of air that she was flapping her hands in agitation. “I think you have a death wish today, my darling. First the lift, now this.”

“I do not have a death wish!” she replied, hotly. “That’s your department. And don’t call me darling. Not when we’re about to suffocate.” She started to hyperventilate.

“Come here,” he said, finding her hand. “Sit down. Stop breathing like that; you’ll pass out. Relax, I’ll think of something.” He sat down, his back against the wall, pulling her with him. Immediately, she clambered over him, settling herself between his outstretched legs. “Ow!” he grumbled. “Christ, Molly, mind where you’re putting your knee! There’s sensitive…parts right there.”

She curled against him and grabbed the gaping front of his shirt in her fists. “Please, Sherlock. Think of something quickly. I…can’t stand this!”

“Shut your eyes, Molly,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “It won’t seem so bad then.” He could feel her body shaking. “Try to relax now. Breathe. I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Great,” she bit out. “That’ll help.”

“It will. You’ll see,” he said, soothingly. He cleared his throat. “It’s a fairy story. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. She was good and fair and perfect because all princesses in stories like these are. And everyone in the kingdom loved her because she was kind beyond measure. Although why kindness should be the only measure for regard is rather confounding. One would think that additional, positive character traits might be taken into consideration.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, stuff like baking chocolate biscuits, heartfelt understanding, forgiveness, of course, very, very important, Molly, and the ability to get body parts from the morgue. You know, the usual things.” He noticed her shivering was becoming intermittent.

“You like chocolate biscuits,” she said.

He chuckled. “Yes, I do. Especially your chocolate biscuits, Molly. They’re the best.”

She preened a little. “And what was the princess’s name?”

“M…Melody. That wasn’t her real name, but they called her that because she sang when she was joyful, which was most of the time, and the entire kingdom was filled with contentment, knowing their princess was happy. Also, it appears they were idiots. I’m not sure how a bit of warbling can make an entire kingdom happy, but it seemed to work in this case.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had long blonde hair and—“

“Make it brown,” she insisted.

“Long, dark hair then, with hints of red, which fell loose down her back because she didn’t have any bobby pins. She was tiny, Molly, just like you. She had a cute little nose which turned up at the end, and big brown eyes that would spark and shoot daggers when she was angry.”

“Real daggers?” she asked, hopefully.

“No, they weren’t real,” he chuckled dryly, “but they felt real enough to those on the receiving end, believe me. Apparently, though, Melody didn’t get angry very often because women aren’t allowed to get angry in fairy stories, or to have any kind of rational response to bothersome events. Anyway, her beloved father had died many years before, and her mother the Queen was growing old and wanted to see her only daughter married and settled before she joined him.”

“Oh,” she said, softly. She wiggled against him, getting comfortable. Her shivering had almost stopped. His voice was deep, steady, and soothing, as were his arms around her, one hand slowly rubbing her back in comforting little circles. She wound her arms around his waist and laid her cheek on the warm skin of his chest.

“One glorious day in the summer when Melody was a girl,” he continued, “she was out picking wildflowers in a meadow and she happened to run into Fool, who was also out gathering flowers.”

“Who’s Fool?” she asked.

“I’m telling you,” he responded. “Fool lived at the palace, entertaining the Queen, Melody’s mother, and all her court. He was a very smart boy, but he had wild ideas which matched his wild heart, and most of the people in the kingdom made fun of him, because they didn’t understand him. That made Fool angry and singular, and sometimes he was cruel to people when he didn’t want to be.”

“Poor Fool,” she breathed.

“Ah, most of the time he didn’t care. He tried to be happy with his smart thoughts and the good he brought the kingdom, even if the people were too stupid to appreciate him. Anyway, as soon as he saw Melody that summer day, he rushed to her side and piled all the flowers he’d collected into her arms, nearly drowning her in sweet-smelling blooms. You see, he’d liked her for a while, but from afar, because he was too shy to tell her how he really felt, and also he thought she was too good for him, being a princess and all, when he was just a lowly fool.”

“Oh,” she said, with a sudden intake of breath.

“Every morning after that Melody found a large basket of fresh flowers on her dressing table, and of course she knew who sent them. Over the years that followed and millions of flowers later, her heart grew soft towards Fool, and one day when she was grown, she woke up and saw the flowers and realized she loved him back. This is a really boring and stupid story.”

“No, it isn’t,” she protested. “What happened next? Did she rush right out and tell him?”

His arms tightened around her. “No, she didn’t. She held her love deep in her heart, because she thought it might embarrass him, although it wouldn’t have done. Plus, they couldn’t marry anyway, because she was a princess and he was a fool. Sometimes, though, they would sneak away and have a picnic down by the river so they could be alone together. And sometimes, they got attacked by the swans who lived on the water.”

“Nice,” Molly said, approvingly.

“In the neighboring kingdom lived a tall, handsome prince, although he wasn’t nearly as handsome, tall or as smart as Fool. He was decent and personable, though, and everyone in his kingdom admired him. He’d been away for many years, fighting dragons, and had recently returned in order to find himself another wife because his first wife kept cheating on him and he’d gotten disgusted with the whole situation and thrown her away. He really was a terrible spousal risk with one failed marriage already. One should always evaluate potential mates very carefully, Molly,” he advised.

“Is this story about getting married?” she complained. “Why do fairy stories about princesses always involve finding a husband?” she added, with a groan.

“Because they do,” he responded. “They’re just simple morality tales designed to reinforce gender roles and societal norms. Stop interrupting.”

“Just saying,” she muttered. “Women can be many things other than brides.”

“Yes, of course women can be anything they wish. But this was a very backward kingdom, being out in the countryside, far from town, and anything else would be too complicated. Anyway,” he continued, “when the handsome prince returned—“

“What’s his name?” she interrupted.

“His name was Buttlefut Beauregard.” She giggled. “He couldn’t help that. It was a family name,” he explained. “And it’s not nice to laugh at the misfortunes of others, Molly. When he got back from killing dragons he immediately came to the palace to woo Melody, and he was very nice, but she didn’t love him. I can’t stress this part enough, Molly. She didn’t love him because she loved Fool.”

“Yes, I see,” she replied.

“Melody’s mother and Buttlefut’s mother wanted them to get married very much, because then their kingdoms would be joined and there would be lots of grandchildren they could coo over in sentimental and nauseating ways.”

“There’s nothing wrong with babies,” she said. “They’re adorable.”

He sighed. “Only one’s own, Molly. Other people’s babies are not so great. They’re squirmy and damp. Like big grubs.” He shuddered.

“You really are the most bizarre man,” she said, shaking her head. “What about Rosie?”

“Exception to the rule,” he replied, quickly. “Anyway,” he continued, “Buttlefut’s mother was a witch, you see, and she was going to cast a spell on them both so they’d fall in love with each other, you know, to move things along. But Buttlefut asked her not to, because he wanted a woman who would love him for himself, as all people do. 

“One day Buttlefut brought Melody the corpse of a large, wild wolf that had been terrorizing the people and eating all the chickens, and whilst this was an impressive gift, she felt sorry for the animal and decided she didn’t want any more presents like that. She preferred flowers.”

“Yes, I can see that. Poor doggie,” she murmured.

“She told Buttlefut that she would never ever marry him, which of course angered his mother and made him unhappy. So he went away to his own kingdom to sulk for a time. And her entire kingdom sank into a funk and everyone was upset. Melody even stopped singing.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Molly said, sliding her hand under his shirt, against his bare chest. “This story doesn’t end badly, does it? I don’t like sad endings.”

“Not yet,” he replied, with a low chuckle.

“So what happened to Buttlefut?”

“He went off to kill some more dragons, because it’s what he did best, and away in a distant land he found a very nice princess who was more his style, and she loved him for himself. So they got married, and she didn’t cheat on him and they were happy for the rest of their days.”

“Good!” she said, with an approving nod. “And what happened to the princess and the fool?”

“Oh, well, when the witch Queen found out that Melody loved Fool and not her darling boy, she was so angry she turned them both into swans. And since they were no longer constrained by silly, stupid human rules, they flew away together.”

“Ah,” she murmured, pleased. There was a short silence. “Don’t swans mate for life?” she asked.

“Yes, they do, Molly,” he answered, his voice low and rumbling. “So they lived happily ever after on a beautiful, wide river in the kingdom, attacking their enemies together and always emerging victorious. And they raised lots of little swan babies over the years and were never parted again.”

“Mmm. That’s so romantic,” she breathed, lifting her head up and beginning to move her hand further up his chest. Her other hand, wrapped around his waist, pulled at the remains of his shirt.

He could feel her warm breath ghosting along his cheek and realized he would only have to turn his head slightly to capture her sweet lips with his, to be kissing her properly at last. He desperately tried to get hold of himself and honor what he thought were her wishes but it was incredibly difficult with her so close, and what was she doing with her hand? A thrill shot straight through him. Tightening his arms around her, helplessly fighting his feelings, his bones began to melt and all he could do was surrender.

“Oh, Molly,” he whispered, lowering his head towards her, finding her lips in the dark. He kissed her, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity, loving the feel of her warm, tender body in his arms. She wound her arm around his neck, moaning softly as she pressed against him, opening her mouth, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. 

She tasted heavenly. Their tongues mingled together, one of his hands tangled in her hair, his arm slipping around her slim waist, pulling her towards him, her fervent desire matching his, their heated kiss building. All thought left him; all he wanted was for this moment to last forever.

Suddenly she stopped, breaking away from him, pulling back, pushing at his chest with her hand. 

He felt instantly guilty. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t help myse—“

“No, shut up!” she commanded. “Do you hear that?”

He listened. “Whistling!” he said. 

They both scrambled to their feet and Sherlock started pounding on the door and yelling for help. Molly took a deep breath and let out a piercing, high pitched scream.

“Christ, Molly!” he winced, sticking his fingers in his ears. “Stop that! He’ll think I’m doing…something to you in here.” They both fell silent for a moment, hearing the whistling growing louder, and eventually the sound of footsteps. Sherlock redoubled his efforts, shouting and pounding, and soon the lock was turning and the door opened.

“I say,” Harold commented, eyeing them both with curiosity. “Managed to get yourself shut in the closet, eh?” 

“It’s a reading nook,” they answered simultaneously, as Molly shoved Sherlock aside to dash out into the light and air of the hallway. 

She stood there, her hand on her chest, breathing deeply, trying to regain her composure. “I need a cup of tea,” she declared, turning and abruptly rushing away towards the breakfast room. 

Harold pointedly eyed Sherlock’s torn, gaping shirt. “There are other, more appropriate places for that sort of thing, you know,” he said, disapprovingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shot Harold a thin, insincere smile. “Thanks for your help, Hal,” he said, curtly, before heading off. “I’ll be in the library when you’re done with your tea,” he shouted after Molly, leaping up the stairs two at a time. 

Once in his bedroom, he shut the door, leaned against it, and took a deep, uneven breath, trying to imprint the memory of that heated kiss onto his brain for all time. She’d felt perfect in his arms. He was sorry their rescue had come at such a precious, fragile moment.

 _What the hell are you doing?_ his brain hissed.

Sherlock dug through the dresser and located a clean cashmere jumper, sea blue to match his eyes. “Haven’t a clue,” he responded, removing his torn shirt and pulling the jumper over his head. Moving over to the mirror, he fluffed his hair back to the perfect degree of tousled disarray.

This was a good development, he realized. She had seemed amenable and hadn’t slapped him which meant she’d at least partly forgiven him. So it was a beginning, he thought, and he had ten glorious days ahead to make her forgive him completely.

 _You’re working both sides of the street,_ his brain lectured. _A bit not good._

“Thanks for the unwanted input,” he said, trotting down the stairs.

 _Lothario,_ his brain muttered. _You know what happened to Don Juan._

“Hyperbole,” he snapped.

_He ended up in hell._

“Christ, shut up already!” he muttered, entering the library. Sarah, seated in her wheelchair and working on her lace, looked up at him and smiled.

In the breakfast room the first thing Molly noticed was an electric silver samovar filled with hot water on the sideboard alongside a tray of freshly baked lemon and lavender biscuits. She scrounged around, looking for a mug and trying to not think about what had just happened between her and Sherlock. She didn’t like the brand of teabags that were out so she rooted around and found a canister of what looked like loose tea in the cupboard below. She popped the lid off and smelled it. It was tea, but with some fairly strong earthy, citrusy notes. Still, it was appealing and would go well with one of those biscuits so she made a strong cuppa, sat down and drank it whilst her thoughts returned to Sherlock. 

It seemed very clear to her that Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind — he wasn’t acting normal. Well, his normal, which wasn’t very in the first place, she admitted as she munched on a biscuit. He seemed much more relaxed here in the country, joking, laughing, making up stories, playing around. Such a stark contrast to Sherlock the detective in serious working mode. She realized she liked this version, too. Sweet and affectionate, still irritating though.

She groaned and shook her head. She’d only been here twelve hours and she’d already cheated on Greg. It was only one kiss and perhaps there was an exception for nearly dying in a locked closet but she still felt guilty. She ran her fingers over her lips. Sighing, she wished Harold hadn’t shown up at that exact moment. She would have gladly braved more time in the dark with Sherlock if they could have continued. Jesus, that man could kiss! She’d felt it all the way down to her toes. That was not at all what she’d expected and her thoughts wandered to a forbidden place, wondering how advanced his skills were in related areas.

No, she told herself, firmly, as she finished her tea. Stop thinking about this. No more kissing, she vowed. She’d made her choice and she wouldn’t keep cheating on Greg even if another opportunity presented itself. It wasn’t right. Sherlock and she would stay friends as she’d originally intended, nothing more. Grabbing a paper napkin, she found a pen in the sideboard and scrawled a note on it, folded it up in her hand, and set off in search of the library.

***


	14. Lessons in Lace

**Lessons in Lace**

_And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while  
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down  
I knew someday that you would fly away  
For love's the greatest healer to be found  
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember  
Angel flying too close to the ground  
_

  


Molly took a couple of wrong turns trying to locate the library, but after using Sherlock’s trick of orientating herself by looking out the windows, she soon found herself back on track. As she neared the door to the library, she could hear two voices in conversation. One was Sherlock’s; she’d know that deep, rumbling baritone anywhere. The other was a woman’s voice, lighter and cultured, with a distinct upper class accent. It must be the infamous Sarah, she reckoned. His old lover. She was suddenly nervous.

The library, despite its large size, felt like one of the coziest rooms in the house. There was something incredibly pleasing about spending long hours in a quiet room filled with old books smelling of leather, dust, and curiosity. There was an enormous fireplace big enough to walk into with a carved marble surrounded complete with matching figures of Apollo and Athena representing wisdom and knowledge. Two long wooden tables ran the length of the room, perfect for spreading out with maps, projects, or experiments, and clusters of overstuffed chairs and sofas created several intimate conversation areas. A second story which circumnavigated the room with a narrow walkway was edged with wrought iron railings with two wrought iron spiral staircases, each one on an oppositional corner, snaking up to that level.

“What do you think of this jacket?” Sherlock drawled, as Molly rounded the door into the room. He was laying prone on the longest, poshest, red velvet sofa Molly had ever seen, his ankles crossed, a pillow under his shoulders, the picture of indolence. He was reading a Tatler magazine from the 1960s, turned outwards so the woman seated in a wheelchair near him could see the advertisement. Boudicca, balanced on the back of the sofa, stretched and yawned.

“Love the purple velvet and the double vent, but the sleeve is disgraceful,” she pronounced. “Look how flabby it is! Plus, the lapel is much too wide and the shoulders are ridiculous. Proportions, Sherlock; I keep telling you.” He flipped the magazine back around and had another look whilst the woman turned her attention back to her work — a small, round, domed pillow on a floorstand, on which a number of threaded bobbins were laid. A forest of silver pins on the pillow seemed to be holding something in place.

Molly swallowed and cleared her throat. “Hello,” she said, walking up to the woman and extending her hand. “You must be Lady Brayley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Molly Hooper.”

“Molly, Sarah. Sarah, Molly,” Sherlock added casually, not looking up from his magazine although his stomach was as tight as a drum at this meeting of the two women.

“Oh, yes!” the woman answered, taking her hand. “Please, call me Sarah. Sherlock’s told me so much about you. I’ve been dying to meet you!” 

He hadn’t exaggerated, Molly realized. Sarah was possibly one of the most beautiful women she had ever met. She had long dark hair piled carelessly, elegantly, on top of her head, secured with a couple of inlaid chopsticks, large, intelligent brown eyes, and fine, delicate features. Even dressed casually as she was she positively dripped money and class and Molly felt a little intimidated. “Forgive me for not welcoming you at breakfast but I’m used to having a tray in my room,” Sarah continued with a careless wave of her hand. “Mornings are not my best time,” she explained. “By the time I wake up the drugs have worn off and I’m not fit for human company.”

“I was very sorry to hear about your loss,” Molly said, sincerely. “I hope you’re on the mend and not in too much pain.”

“Yes, well, we’re getting along as best we can, thanks. Some days are better than others, but Sherlock has been very kind and helpful.” She gave him an affectionate smile. “Scott has holed up somewhere, nowhere to be found. Probably working on that model airplane Sherlock got him. It’s been very hard on him,” she said, looking concerned.

“I met him at breakfast,” Molly said. “He seems like a nice young man. Very bright.”

“Yes, he is,” Sarah responded. “I’m trying to give him space. He seems to need it right now. To come to terms with…it. I expect any day now he’ll come find me and crawl into my lap for hugs like he did when he was little. Oh, and I want to thank you for keeping my man here alive during that terrible business with Jim Moriarty,” she continued, patting Sherlock’s leg. “That escapade nearly killed me,” she added, glaring at Sherlock, who merely smiled lopsidedly and flipped a few pages in his magazine. “You still haven’t made it up to me, you bastard,” she reprimanded him, bending over her work again. He grunted, noncommittally.

Molly casually strolled around the side of the sofa near Sherlock’s head and unobtrusively dropped the folded napkin onto his chest. “Gosh, this room is amazing,” she commented, waving her hand around. “I’ve never seen a private library this big before! The ceiling must be ten, fifteen meters high. There must be thousands of books! I don’t think I’d ever want to leave!”

“I love spending time in here,” Sarah replied, pleased at the compliment. “That bank of windows overlooking the lawn were installed about a decade ago, and they completely changed the character of the room, opened it up quite a bit. They were those horrid, narrow little gothic windows before. It’s so sunny now! Very cheerful. We found a craftsman in the village to put in the stained glass around the edges and added that long window seat. A nice touch, I think.”

Sherlock surreptitiously unfolded the napkin whilst Sarah was talking and read it.

__

_That is never to happen again!_

He met Molly’s eye, nodded briefly, shoved the note in his jeans pocket, and turned his attention back to his magazine, his eyes darkening.

“So many books!” Molly noted, turning around to gape at them all.

“Going on 50,000 at the last inventory. Father’s thinking about selling a few collections to open up that alcove,” Sarah said, gesturing at one wall, “but I told him no. Absolutely not. I mean, can you imagine parting with any of these wonderful old books? You might enjoy looking through the science section when you have a few moments; it’s over there. There’s a few original volumes of pathology lectures by Thomas Hodgkins from the 1850s that might interest you. And you’ll probably enjoy poking around in the curio cabinets,” she said, indicating a line of about 20 glass-fronted cabinets edging the wall and packed with all sorts of fascinating objects — shells, fossils, bones, unusual rocks, feathers, coins, broken clay pipes, bits of old glass polished by the sea, and other small, interesting items family members had picked up mudlarking over the centuries, most of them neatly labeled. It was a naturalist’s dream.

“Wow, great, thanks!” Molly replied, impressed. “And what are you making?” leaning over the sofa to peer at Sarah’s work.

“Honiton lace,” Sarah answered. “Come sit here and I’ll show you.” Molly came around and sat on the sofa near the work so she could see. “Are you familiar with lace-making, Molly?” 

“No, not at all. I mean of course I’ve seen it, lace I mean, but I thought it was made with a shuttle,” she replied.

“That’s one type of lace,” Sarah responded. “That’s called tatting. This is bobbin lace. There’s also needle lace, but very few people do that anymore; it’s rather obscure now. See, there’s this compact pillow, stuffed quite firmly with barley hay, and the cardboard pattern is pinned to it. These are the bobbins,” she explained, showing her one of them. “They’re handmade of wood, turned on a small lathe, but some antique ones are made of bone. I’ve seen metal ones, too, but they’re so heavy they usually snap the delicate thread. Scott made these back home. They’re quite good. He’s very clever with his hands, craft wise; he could start his own little business, if he ever got off his phone or stopped working on that model airplane,” she added, dryly. “I worry about him, all those fumes from the glue.

“Each lace making region across Europe has its favorite shape of bobbin,” she continued, “and some of them are quite fancy with beads made of precious gems and inlaid silver tinsel, or cleverly carved loose rings on them, or little sayings or names engraved on them. They were often given as keepsake to a friend or lover.”

“There’s so many!” Molly observed. “How do you know which ones to use?”

“This is only 22 pair,” Sarah chuckled. “Some types of bobbin lace require hundreds of bobbins, but all lace uses the same basic two stitches. Cross, twist, cross twist. It’s right over left and then left over right. You’re not tying knots, just twisting the threads together, so it’s really a form of weaving. You work with four bobbins at a time, or two pairs, so it’s just a matter of watching the threads on the pattern and taking in the next two pairs in turn and putting the others aside. Sometimes you add in more bobbins or throw some out. I know it looks overwhelming, but you soon get used to it. Do you want some cake?” She pointed at a trolley over by the windows, which was loaded with tea things, several types of biscuits and a tall cake studded with tart Morello cherries, which already had a large piece taken out of it. “We always have a trolley here at midday. Sherlock must have his elevensies,” she teased.

“I can’t help it if Cook is an excellent baker,” Sherlock replied, evenly. “She knows I can’t resist her cakes.”

“Does Cook have a name?” Molly inquired.

“Yes,” he answered, with a sly smile. “It’s Cook. Bridget Cook. Her husband, Philip Cook, is the head groundskeeper. Try the cake, Molly. It’s really good.”

“Not right now, thanks,” Molly demurred, rubbing her stomach which was feeling a little iffy, probably due to her nerves, she reckoned. “I just had a lemon biscuit with my tea. So, how does this work? Will you show me?” she said, pointing at the lace.

“Honiton bobbins are small and pointed like this on one end,” Sarah answered, “because there’s a lot of sewings, which just means you attach one part of the lace to another by slipping one bobbin through a loop of thread from another. There’s a length of thread wound on the top, or head of each bobbin, and you twist the threads together and pin the stitches in place through the pattern into the pillow and letting out more thread as you go along. It’s quite simple really, once you get the hang of it. I’m working on a handkerchief edging. See? Like this.” She deftly manipulated the bobbins for a few minutes, placed a pin, and then tilted the pillow so Molly could look straight down at the lace without the pins getting in the way. “The pins hold it all together and set the pattern, so when you remove it from the pillow, you have a piece of lace. The hard part is leaving it on the pillow after you’ve finished, to set the thread. I need to set all these pins down, though. They get in the way of the sewings.” She picked up a small wooden tool and started pushing the pins down, flush with the surface of the pillow. “Thread has a memory, you know.”

“I didn’t know that!” Molly exclaimed. “How long does it take to make a piece like that?” she asked, wishing she could try it.

“I’ve been working on this piece, off and on, for about four months,” Sarah said. “I started it before…the accident. Picking up steam on it now. It helps to take my mind off everything. When I’m done with this edging I’ll sew it to a linen center, to finish the handkerchief. It’s for my niece, she turns 18 in September. Charlotte’s daughter. Char’s the eldest, lives in London with her husband Teddy. Mummy stayed with her whilst Scott and I were in hospital. We call her Marie Antoinette when she’s being a ditzy snob.”

“Which, unfortunately, is far too often,” Sherlock interjected.

“She gets it from mummy, but mummy has more compassion,” Sarah continued. “Then there’s Becky, my middle sister. She’s the one that got away,” she smiled. “She lives in Paris, blissfully alone with her paints, canvasses, and typewriter, along with a truly horrifying number of cats. She thinks she’s some kind of reincarnated mixture of Toulouse Lautrec and Gertrude Stein.”

“And who are you?” Molly asked, with a gentle smile.

“Karl Marx,” Sherlock said, with a laugh. 

Sarah smacked his leg and glared at him. “Very funny.” She drew a short, sharp breath as a look of pain crossed her features. “I’ve waited long enough, Sherlock. Get me my drugs,” she demanded.

He got up and went over to the tea trolley, shook out some pills, poured a cup of tea and brought them back to her. She took them, stretching in her chair, pushing against the the back, trying to alleviate the pressure on her spine, whilst Sherlock reclined again on the sofa, picking up his Tatler.

Sarah returned to her bobbins whilst Molly watched her, fascinated, examining the lace carefully. She was gobsmacked. It was beautiful, snowy white, crisp and intricate, tiny motifs gracefully flowing around the edging, like thread brought to life. “Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, mesmerized.

“In Honiton, when I was young,” Sarah said. “It’s just a short train ride away, and there used to be a shop on the High Street that taught lace-making and sold the best antique lace. Not just Honiton and other bobbin laces from the continent, but also the great needle laces — Point de Gaze, Alencon, Gros Point de Venise. Once I found the most amazing piece of Burano there. An entire shawl; it was so beautiful with its snowy ground. I spent so much money in that place!” she laughed. “It’s gone out of business now, which is such a shame, but there’s still All Hallows, a museum in the town centre. Did you know Queen Victoria’s wedding gown was made of Honiton lace? She wanted to honor the English lace-makers and support the industry, so she had it commissioned. It’s such a beautiful lace, especially the guipure, and I’m glad she didn’t go with a continental lace.” She admired her handiwork. “See? I’ve just rounded the second corner, so I’m nearly halfway there now.” She extended her hands over her head and stretched, wincing.

“I’m afraid I’m tiring you out,” Molly said.

“No, no, it’s just my back…it’s not so good today. Okay, yes, it’s bad right now. Drugs, Sherlock!” She snapped her fingers.

“Talk about spaced out. You’ve just had them,” he sighed, shaking his head, throwing his magazine aside, and pushing up his jumper sleeves. “And this is why you’re not allowed to take them yourself. You’ve got to give them time to take effect. Gobbling more isn’t going to help, you’ll get as loopy as Char.” He stood up behind Sarah and started massaging her back and shoulders, slowly, not too firmly. 

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Like you’re one to lecture about rationing drugs, Sherlock. That’s rich. Ah, that feels good. Thank you, my darling,” she breathed, reaching over her head and running the palm of her hand over his forearm in an intimate gesture. 

There was a silence whilst Molly looked away, her heart beating a little fast from seeing them engage in such a familiar manner. “Someday, Sarah, will you teach me how to do this?” 

“Of course! One thing lacemakers love to do is to teach others about their arcane craft,” Sarah answered, her eyes twinkling. “And this vacation is the perfect time for you to learn. Lots of time and there are very few distractions in the country. We’ll start this afternoon. A little to the left, Sherlock.”

“Lovely!” Molly beamed and looked carefully at the handkerchief edging. “Are those primroses?”

“Yes, for my niece, Primmy. Her real name is Primrose.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Who names their child Primrose in this day and age? My sister is such a headcase,” she sighed. “You’ve met mummy, yes? That whole spaced out, floaty, smokes too much pot thing she does? Well, Char’s got that in spades. Without the drugs, if you can imagine. Sometimes I don’t know how she finds her way home every day. Drove me crazy for years. That’s what having too much money will do. All the wealth in this country should be redistributed.”

“See? Karl Marx,” Sherlock cut in, still massaging. “You should have seen Char, Molly,” Sherlock remarked. “After Primmy was born I swear she thought she was Marie Antoinette with Marie-Thérèse in tow, swanning around their country house like it was the Petit Trianon. Playing at the simple life as only the rich can do. Never came back down to earth after that. Primmy’s decent enough, though,” he shrugged, “for a girl.” He winked at Molly.

“Wait a minute,” Molly said. “I thought you didn’t know anything about history. How do you know about the French court of the 17th century?”

“He knows much more than he lets on,” Sarah confided. “He does it on purpose, you know, just to keep his psychopathic image up.”

“Quiet!” he admonished her. “You’re giving away all my secrets. And I’m a sociopath. There’s a difference.”

“My darling, you’re the least sociopathic person I know,” Sarah said, her eyes soft as she looked up at him. “And I’ve worked with lots of do-gooding royals, many who actually _are_ sociopaths. You know though, for a while before she found Teddy, I thought Char might do for Mycroft,” she continued. She grinned wickedly and Sherlock burst out laughing. “Wouldn’t that have been the worst torture ever for your brother?” she chortled. She leaned back in her wheelchair and rubbed her back over her brace. “That’s good, Sherlock. Will you read to me for a while? It helps.”

“I take it you want some more of this drivel,” he said, picking up a book from the large mahogany coffee table and sitting down. She nodded, smiling at his discomfiture. “All right,” he grumbled. “Although you would think with as many books as you have you might have chosen something a little more interesting. Something at least with an attempted murder or a poisoning in it. Now, where were we? Ah, Chapter Eighteen…” He flipped to their spot and began to read. “...Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, "I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here—“

“Ooo, Wickham is so bad,” Sarah interrupted. “Lizzie should be careful!”

“Aw, he’s just the romantic distraction,” Sherlock replied. 

“I thought you hadn’t read this book!” she exclaimed.

“I haven’t,” he said, “but it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. She’s going to get together with the handsome, rudely brooding Mr. Darcy, who also happens to be tremendously rich. A complete shocker,” he noted, flatly. “Now shut up so I can continue.”

Sarah smiled and laced her fingers together across her tummy. “So sarcastic. Always to type, aren’t you, my darling? Go ahead. And take that tone out of your voice when you read.”

“If I must,” he muttered. “But it’s just a dumb romance. It deserves sarcasm.”

“You really don’t understand women,” Molly cut in coldly, irritated one of her favorite writers was being unfairly reviled, or perhaps it was because of a sudden headache that was blooming behind her eyes. “Or this book, do you? It’s satire, Sherlock. Jane Austen was a brilliant writer who skewered social norms. She created sharply drawn characters and she brilliantly takes jabs at the necessity of marriage, at social customs, and at the rippling, generational effects of lousy parenting, not to mention the economic hardships brought about by our caste system, to name but a few themes. These issues are of particular interest to women given our marginalized status in society. And you of all people should understand generational trauma.” He paled and stared at her blankly. “It’s not just a dumb romance, you…noodle,” she finished.

Sarah laughed, delighted. “Ah, she’s got you, Sherlock! And she’s entirely correct; Jane Austen is brilliant and under appreciated. I’m beginning to like your Molly a lot.”

Sherlock grunted and squirmed uncomfortably. “Two against one is hardly fair,” he complained. “Especially when one is supposed to be acting like a gentleman. It kind of limits my response.”

“You don’t have an informed response,” Molly said, going in for the kill. “So you’re taking refuge in grievance.” 

Knowing he was beaten, his lips compressed into a thin line and his eyes turned narrow and steely, but he didn’t utter another word.

Sarah laughed again. “Oh, poor Sherlock,” she teased, rubbing his knee. “So abused.”

Molly stood up. “Please excuse me,” she said, “but I’m going to beg off for a little while. I think I need to go lay down. I’m feeling a little tired and it’s making me cranky.”

“Why, yes, your colour is a bit high,” Sarah noted. “Although that might have to do with this ignoramus here. I hope you’re not over-extending yourself. It’s a lot to take in. Do, go rest. We can start lacing tomorrow.”

“Perhaps I had too much excitement earlier today,” Molly replied, giving Sherlock a look. She headed for the door.

“Go make sure she gets to her room,” Sarah whispered to Sherlock. “And see if she needs anything.”

He leapt up and took Molly’s arm. “Let me accompany you,” he said. “This house can be confusing. So many twists and turns, aren’t there?” He gave her a understanding smile as he piloted her back to the yellow turret room and got her situated under the duvet. “Are you sure I can’t bring you anything?” he asked, worried about her. “A sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” she said, plumping her pillow and settling in. “I’m not hungry. But I am really thirsty. Would you bring me some water?”

He was back in a flash with a tall glass of water, which she eagerly drank. He refilled it and left it on her nightstand.

“Where’s your phone?” he asked, looking around.

“Charging on the windowsill. I’ll be fine, Sherlock,” she said, closing her eyes. “I just need a little rest, I’m sure.”

“Text me if you feel worse,” he urged, moving her phone to the nightstand. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Mmhm,” she agreed. He reached down and gently stroked her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “That feels nice,” she murmured, as she drifted off.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage Sherlock reads in the library of Holsworthy is from J. Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_ , 1813, chapter 18.


	15. First Evening

**First Evening**

_Crazy  
I'm crazy for feelin' so lonely  
I'm crazy  
Crazy for feelin' so blue  
I knew  
You'd love me as long as you wanted  
And then someday  
You'd leave me for somebody new  
Worry  
Why do I let myself worry  
Wonderin'  
What in the world did i do  
I'm crazy  
For thinkin' that my love would hold you  
I'm crazy for tryin', and crazy for cryin'  
And I'm crazy for lovin' you_

When Molly woke up a few hours later she felt much better, despite the ghost of a headache that remained, hovering just behind her eyes. She yawned, stretched, drank the leftover glass of water, and noticed a vase of flowers on her nightstand that hadn’t been there before. Large, lovely parrot tulips in stripes of pink, green, and white, freshly cut but sloppily arranged. Clearly the work of a man unaccustomed to the delicate arts. Her fool. He must have checked on her whilst she was sleeping. 

She smiled to herself and lifted one of the flowers to her nose for a whiff of its delicate fragrance. Rolling onto her back, she studied the flower for long minutes, getting lost in the fringed edges and in the soft, shimmering pearlescence of the petals, mesmerized by its beauty. She brushed it across her cheek and sighing, stretched again, gazing at the patterns created by the intricate folds in the canopy above her head. She appreciated the richness of her surroundings but also felt undeserving to be the recipient of all this luxury. She was just a regular working professional, a cog in the great machine of life. Living like this for a short period of time was a welcome treat, but doing it permanently was unthinkable.

Sherlock had been right, though — she had needed a holiday, a break from the grinding pressure of work and the constant barrage of loud, busy, London life. Already she felt much more rested and relaxed. He was being inordinately sweet, she thought, twirling the flower stem between her fingers. Yes, he was still impatient and arrogant but something had softened him a bit, around the edges. She wondered if that was the influence of Lady Anne, or maybe he was being so thoughtful for Sarah’s sake. 

Why did Sarah have to be so nice, so kind, so beautiful? she thought. Molly felt inadequate next to such grace and charm, unable to compete. But then she wondered what she was in competition for. It certainly couldn’t be for his attention; she wasn’t in love with him anymore. She’d have to be crazy to go down that road again after she’d gone through so much bother extricating herself from the romantic insanity that had dogged her life for years. 

And yet it was almost intoxicating when he turned his charm on her, singling her out for his precious, rarely bestowed regard. It would be easy to drop her resolve, to bend to his will, to get sucked into his massive gravitational pull. He was so gorgeous, so confident and compelling, and his eyes seemed to sparkle much more now than they ever did in London. She was going to have to keep herself under tight regulation, she realized, given the temptation close at hand and especially since he didn’t seem to be backing off, despite her clear attachment to Greg. If anything, he was being more persistent. 

If she was being honest with herself, she noted, she was enjoying it, enjoying the flirting and the power she held over him, for a change. She liked feeling special in his eyes. What woman wouldn’t? Shaking her head and letting out a groan, she tried to tell herself that she could just relax and have a nice holiday. It was possible. Stop thinking so much, stop over-analyzing every single interaction she had with him. Let things flow.

Sitting up and stretching, she saw four dresses draped across the little blue armchair, with a note lying on top. She got out of bed and went to inspect them.

_Dearest Molly—_

__

__

_We dress a bit for dinner and that idiot couldn’t remember if he told you to bring something to wear. These are a few of my pieces for you to try in case you don’t have anything. We’re about the same size so I thought they might work whilst you’re staying with us. I hope they meet with your approval. I’ll send Tanya (my maid) to help you at 4.  
—Sarah  
_

_  
ps. Please don’t be mad._

Why would I be mad? Molly wondered, as she looked through the gowns. What a thoughtful thing to do!

They were all couture, of course; only the best for Lady Sarah. She pulled one out and held it up. It was silk charmeuse, pearl grey and covered with large, hand painted, watercolor style flowers that were so cleverly done she could almost swear they were moving in a gentle breeze as the fabric shifted. It had a wide, soft, folded neckline and short, butterfly sleeves. Gorgeous. 

The next one was a dark blue satin sheath dress overlaid with black gauze, long sleeved, the entirety of which was thickly covered with brightly embroidered and beaded woodland flowers, animals, moons and stars which evoked dreams of a midnight garden. Very unusual and pretty. 

The third dress was cherry red, sleeveless, in soft velvet with a high neck, fitted tight to the body with a long slit up the side to allow for a tantalizing glimpse of thigh. Rather bold and sexy. She was beginning to suspect Sherlock had helped Sarah choose these for her.

The last dress was a stunner and Molly wondered if she’d ever have the nerve to wear it. It was marvelously stiff with a tight waist, the skirt falling perfectly and hanging just below the knee in a deep, rich, violet rough silk, way off the shoulder with a low décolletage. She’d never been this close to a dress this exquisite in her life. She held it up to her body and admired herself in the full length mirror. The color was perfect for her but she wasn’t sure it was appropriate for her to wear on her first evening. It was a dress built for seduction, for champagne, intimate dark corners, candlelight, and soft music.

There was a knock on the door, bringing her out of her reverie. She opened it to find a young blonde woman standing there, a sewing basket tucked under her arm. “Good afternoon, Miss,” the girl said, shyly. “My name’s Tanya. Lady Sarah sent me to fit some dresses for you.”

“Come in, Tanya,” she replied. “And please call me Molly.”

“Yes, Miss Molly,” she said, stepping into the room. “If you’d like to try each one on, I can pin them and then get them ready before dinner.”

“Oh, okay! That’s wonderful. Are you sure you have time?” Molly began to remove her clothing.

“It won’t take that long, I’m sure,” Tanya replied, eyeing her figure. “Just a few stitches, here and there. I won’t trim the darts so I can restore the fit later, but I’m sure I can make them look pretty good on you. You’re very close in size. Might have to take in the bust, just a little. You’re a trifle smaller than Lady Sarah. No, you put it on inside out,” she smiled, as Molly began to pull the grey gown over her head. “Makes the pinning easier.”

Molly blushed at her ignorance and put the dress on, wrong side out. Tanya stepped closer, fastened up the back, and began to fold darts into the bust, snugging up the fit. “This is going to look lovely on you,” she continued. “The colour is perfect for your fair skin. Just right. Which one were you thinking of for tonight? I can do that one up first.”

“This one, I think,” she replied. “And I’ll have to figure out what to do with my hair.”

“I can help you with that, too,” Tanya supplied. “Maybe a soft chignon? With a flower in it, to match the dress. You have lovely hair, Miss Molly,” she commented, moving the thick, heavy mass of it aside to check the fit across the back and waist, adding a few more pins. “No, I know. I’ll do a low soft bun with a thick braid that wraps around it, and tuck in some fresh, small grape hyacinths from the garden. It’ll set off the color to perfection. All right, next one,” she instructed, satisfied with her alterations, helping Molly to carefully remove the garment.

“Wait, I want to try this one on right side out first,” Molly said, reaching for the violet silk. 

She slipped it on and Tanya drew an admiring breath as she fastened it up. “That is gorgeous, Miss,” she said. “It looks like it was made just for you. The colour…” she trailed off, her eyes wide with envy.

“It’s not too revealing for dinner?” Molly asked, turning to observe herself in the mirror. She looked amazing, she realized. She gathered her hair up in one hand on top of her head and admired herself. The dress perfectly set off her long neck, her straight upper back, small waist, plus her collarbones and breasts, as if they finally amounted to something even he couldn’t easily dismiss. She never thought she could look so pretty.

“Well,” Tanya hedged, “it is rather bold, but it looks really good on you.”

“That’s settled, then,” Molly said, pulling it off and turning it inside out to put it on again. “I’m not wearing that tonight. Maybe some other time if we do something fancier. I’ll stick with the grey charmeuse for now. So, Tanya, have you worked at Holsworthy long?”

“Almost four years now. It’s been a lifesaver. Literally, Miss, a lifesaver,” she emphasized. “Lady Anne rescued me from a…difficult situation at home,” she explained with a grimace, as she pinned. “My stepdad,” she confided. “I’d heard how she sometimes helps girls from the village so the day I turned 18 I packed my bags, walked up here, knocked on the door, and asked for a post. She hired me on the spot. I’m ever so grateful to her — she’s the kindest, most lovely person ever. They all are. I didn’t know people could be so nice. There aren’t many prospects around here for young women but I wasn’t going to spend another minute in that man’s house, even if I had to run all the way to London.”

Molly looked her in the eye. “I’m glad you got away from him,” she said, firmly. “Lady Anne helped you,” she noted, “but you rescued you by leaving. Remember that. You must always look out for yourself, Tanya. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you like that again. Before I leave I’ll give you my number in case you ever get to London and need a contact. I’m not trying to steal you away from Lady Anne,” she laughed, “but if you’re as handy with a needle as I suspect, I bet you could get a job in a fashion house as a seamstress.”

“I will, Miss. Molly,” she added, shyly. “I never thought of reaching to such heights. London! Think of it!” Her eyes began to glow. They worked their way through fitting the other two dresses and then Tanya left, promising to return at half six to get her ready for cocktails.

Molly had a bit of time to kill, so she went off in search of a little, simply decorated room they’d passed on her tour this morning, above the library on the first floor. It was a small room housing a worn Victorian sofa with a high, intricately carved back firmly upholstered in dark purple velvet — horsehair stuffing, Molly reckoned — a coffee table and a few lamps. The walls were lined with hundreds of scrapbooks and photo albums arranged on wooden shelves, some dating back nearly two centuries and all sorted by date.

Molly pulled one of the oldest and settled down on the sofa, opening it carefully because the paper pages were fragile. This one was handcrafted decades before photography became commonplace and it was filled with notes penned by quills with oak gall ink, calling cards, invitations to candlelit balls held long ago in great houses across the county, little drawings and poems, precious love letters delivered furtively, no doubt, under smoky brazier-light in the darkened corner of a stone terrace, and also included a few keepsakes — short lengths of tatting, a satin glove, a dried rose which had lost its scent 100 years ago or more, a cravat pin pierced through the page, a fine linen lace handkerchief — mementoes of a long forgotten past.

One page in particular drew her attention. It contained a hand drawn sketch of a sleeping baby along with two small hand knitted silk socks and a precious lock of blonde hair sweetly bound with a thin blue ribbon affixed to the page. The notation simply read, 

__

_Louise Anne Patterson Holstead. 8 months, 3 days.  
Taken unto God on this day September 18, 1842._

The inked words were blurred by tears that had fallen onto the page nearly two centuries ago. Molly felt a lump rise in her throat as she lingered over the image. Poor child, she thought. Not even a year of life and now resting, sleeping peacefully for long decades in the local churchyard, surrounded by all her family who had eventually followed her into the great unknown.

She put the scrapbook back and chose something from the 1960s instead before she became overwhelmed by sadness, by considerations of the slow, unrelenting passage of time. Maybe there would be a picture of his mother in here, somewhere. As she turned the pages, she thought of young Sherlock growing up in this house and what that must have been like for him. At least he’d been nurtured, cared for by a loving family for a portion of each year. Not that his own family was unloving, she reckoned, but perhaps they hadn’t fit together in the way he had needed them to. Wandering in her mind, she was so absorbed into the photographs she didn’t hear him coming down the hall.

“There you are,” his voice rang out, startling her out of her daydreams. “I thought I might find you in here,” he continued, hovering around the entrance, not sure if he should intrude. “You seemed fascinated by this room this morning. I went to check on you but you were gone. Are you feeling better?” 

She nodded, smiling at him. “Much,” she replied. “Thank you. I just needed a bit of rest. My nerves have been sort of skittish these last few days. The tulips were lovely, Sherlock. That was very thoughtful of you.”

He seemed momentarily shy or perhaps embarrassed but came in anyway and sat down next to her. “Looking for secrets?” he asked. Getting up, he grabbed an album from the early 1980s off the shelves. “This is probably what you want,” he said, handing it to her, “if you’re looking for me.” His eyes sparkled merrily at her as he sat down again.

She began to turn the pages, examining the photos carefully. Soon enough, she found one, and then more; a cluster of photos from an Easter Sunday about 35 years ago that filled several pages. In one photo a very young Sherlock, not more than three or four years old and wearing a pirate hat, was playing on the lawn with a number of other children, an egg-filled basket clutched in one hand. “Look how adorable you were,” she noted, and then laughed. “Look at those plump cheeks and my goodness what a pout you had! Still do,” she teased, nudging him in the side with her elbow. “And is that Mycroft?” she asked, pointing. He nodded. “He’s wearing bunny ears! Oh my god! You should print this in The Times,” she chortled. “Behold the British Government.” 

He laughed. “That is a very good idea,” he responded, looking at the photo more carefully. “I’ll save that idea for when he owes me another favour which should be pretty soon, knowing him and how often he screws up.”

“Who’s this little girl holding your hand?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s Sarah,” he said, offhandedly. “We were stuck together like glue back then.”

She peered at it. “Wait, Sherlock. That’s…not Sarah. Look at her face.”

He looked at it again and paled. “Jesus,” he murmured. “That’s my sister. That’s Eurus.” He seemed shaken and drew a deep breath through a short silence whilst he absorbed this information. “She was here, in this very house. Christ, Molly, they knew. Robert and Anne, they knew.”

She put a calming hand on his trembling arm. “Maybe they didn’t know everything, Sherlock. Maybe they thought she had died. Like your parents were led to believe. And then everyone agreed never to mention her because you had forgotten and everyone thought it was for the best.”

“Maybe you’re right, but all of this is because Mycroft lied,” he said, bitterly. “Damn him.” He looked at the photo again. “This is weird,” he stated. “This makes me feel weird.” He shuddered. “We were here, in this house, out on that lawn all those years ago, not knowing what was in store for us a year or two later. And she said I ignored her. Look, we’re playing together; I’m holding her hand. She killed Victor because she said I ignored her! That was a lie. Maybe she would have had a best friend too if she hadn’t been such a starkers bitch.”

“That’s a bit cruel,” Molly responded, evenly. “She can’t help how she is. Pathology like that usually has a large genetic component.”

“Yes, true and sorry, but look. I’m not ignoring her. Look at that photo, I’m helping her put eggs in her basket!” He growled and shook his head, confused.

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter what you really said or did,” Molly proclaimed, and then paused. “No, that’s not quite what I meant. She had her own version of what happened, didn’t she? As did you. She was fixated on you so any given moment you weren’t paying attention to her she might have felt was a betrayal. For some reason, she felt that you ignored her, left her behind, didn’t give her the attention she wanted, whether that was true or not.”

“How can people ignore the truth?” he blurted out, growing angry.

“People believe what they have to, Sherlock, to justify and rationalize their behaviors. People lie when the truth is untenable. You know this already.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently, comfortingly.

He sighed. “I know,” he admitted. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple,” he added, wryly.

“Yes, exactly,” she affirmed, nodding. “And it’s not like she has a stable mind. Who really knows what the truth is or was? It’s all subjective, isn’t it? Especially when it comes to childhood memories. Sherlock, if you’re thinking you could have changed things had you only known, I assure you, you couldn’t have done. You were only five when it happened.”

“I know,” he said, glumly. “I…I just wasn’t expecting to see this today and I’m kind of bowled over,” he admitted, a little surprised he felt safe opening up to her like this. “Some days, Molly, it’s like I’m reeling from some kind of nightmare childhood that was filled with treachery.”

“Of course,” she said, softly, squeezing his hand again. “Of course you feel that way. That’s perfectly normal. You’re still working through what happened and your own family lied to you about it for a very long time. It’s okay to be upset. But don’t take it out on Robert and Anne, okay? I’m sure they were trying to help.”

“All right,” he replied, rubbing his brows, comforted by her kindness, her understanding, her wise practicality. 

“Sherlock, if you ever want to talk about it you can have me,” she said, and then blushed. “Erm, no, I mean, you can come to me. We’re friends, right? I want to support you. I know you’re not very good at that sort of thing, but I’m ready and willing to listen…just in case you ever feel like it.”

He nodded, reached over and gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. She always knew exactly what to say, he thought, and her sympathy rarely failed. He removed the photo from the page and stuffed it in his back pocket. “I’ll take your advice.” He gave her a wan smile. “Thanks for listening, Molly. It’s good of you. Let’s go get dressed for dinner, okay? I don’t want to think about this anymore.” 

She nodded and they headed back to their bedrooms. He held her hand the entire way and she didn’t want to drop hers in case that seemed like a rejection. It felt rather nice, she found, as they walked along. His hand was warm and dry and hers felt quite at home nestled cozily inside of his. They paused outside his door and he dropped a swift, light kiss on her knuckles before letting her go with a grateful smile.

Once back in her room she changed into her slip and her dressing gown, then sat down at the vanity to apply her makeup. She wanted to look perfect for this, her first evening at Holsworthy. Her nervousness caused her to put on too much so she took a tissue and wiped half of it off. “Don’t want to look like a clown,” she muttered to herself, looking in the mirror. Now her eyeshadow was uneven, so she wiped it all off and started over. When she finally achieved the effortless but hopefully glowing effect she was after she snuggled into the blue velvet chair with her phone to check her messages and wait for Tanya. Soon, however, her attention drifted out the window to the garden and the beautiful rolling landscape beyond, the lowering sun casting long shadows across the thick, green lawn, bathing the hills in golden light.

She was beginning to feel a trifle sorry she had been so mean to him recently, given all the horror and difficulties he’d been through over the past few months. It must have been very hard, she thought; he was still clearly unsettled and having new insights about the whole situation. She would have to be more patient with him, she decided. She felt, as a good friend, it would be unkind of her to continue haranguing him over past mistakes and made a little vow to be consciously kinder to him.

She’d been running scared ever since that phone call and taking her fear and panic out on him, she realized. But she still wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship with him; she was committed to Greg now and it wasn’t at all clear Sherlock wouldn’t revert to his old, bad habits once he was back in town.

There was also the possibility that he and Sarah might come to some sort of an understanding again. The idea made her slightly uncomfortable. But before she could continue on that train of thought there was a knock at her door. 

“Hello, Miss Molly,” Tanya said, opening the door and coming in. “Sorry I’m late. Lady Sarah’s hair would not cooperate tonight.” 

“It’s fine,” Molly replied. “There’s no hurry.” Tanya quickly got her ready. The altered dress fit like a dream, and after her hair was arranged and the little purple flowers tucked into her bun she drew a breath as she examined herself in the mirror. “Oh, thank you! You’ve worked a miracle,” Molly gushed. She put in her dangly dragonfly earrings, stepped into her lavender suede pumps, gave Tanya a quick hug, and headed off for the crimson drawing room.

Everyone was already assembled and chatting as Molly came in. Harold’s jaw fell open as he saw her, his eyes grew hungry, and he started in her direction. Sherlock leaped up from his seat on the sofa, blocking Harold’s approach, and took Molly’s hand. Raising it up, he steadied her whilst she gave a happy little twirl, showing off her borrowed clothing.

“You look lovely,” he murmured to her.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. “So do you.” She patted the dark blue suit he was wearing. “Now there’s the Sherlock I know and love…I mean, know,” she finished awkwardly, mentally kicking herself for this slip of the tongue. 

“Something to drink, Molly?” Harold asked as Sherlock went over to refresh Robert’s whiskey and water.

“Red wine, please, if you have it,” she responded. She moved over to Sarah, thanked her for the loan of the dresses and admired her gown in return. Settling on the sofa next to Scott she looked around the room. “That is a wonderful painting,” she noted, indicating a large, exceptionally fine portrait hanging over the fireplace. 

It was of Anne and Robert, done in the rich, keenly perceptive style of John Singer Sargent. She was seated in an ornately carved chair with her husband standing just beside her, his left hand traditionally placed on her shoulder, but instead of the more formal position of her hands in her lap, her right arm was bent at the elbow which allowed her hand to cover his gently, delicately, their fingers interwoven, and her face was turned towards him. Her other hand was draped over the arm of the chair holding an open lace fan. They were smiling into each other’s eyes. “So romantic,” Molly breathed, struck by the intimacy of the likeness as she accepted her glass of wine from Harold.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Sarah agreed. “That was painted a decade ago for their ruby wedding anniversary by an artist they met in Paris through my sister Becky. They’ve had a wonderful marriage and there’s just something in that painting that captures the special bond they have.” She grew quiet then, pulled into a sad rumination over her own marriage which had ended so horribly just three months prior. 

“I’m so sorry,” Molly said, reaching over and pressing Sarah’s hand, understanding what must be going through her mind.

“It’s okay,” Sarah replied, wiping away a tear. “Thank you, Molly. You’re very kind. It just hits me now and then.”

“Of course it does,” Molly soothed. “And over time it will become easier to bear. You just need to be gentle with yourself.”

They passed the next half an hour talking about this and that before they were called to dinner in the formal dining room, which was yet another magnificently appointed room full of heavy, dark mahogany furniture. The table was laid with white damask, sterling flatware, Royal Crown Derby bone china, beeswax tapers, and several low bowls of fresh flowers from the gardens.

Lady Anne served, explaining that she had never been comfortable with servants at table when everyone could just as easily help themselves. “Seems pompous and privileged in this modern era,” she stated. “And they have other, more important things to do than help a group of people eat.”

“Pace yourself,” Harold advised as he outmaneuvered Sherlock and grabbed a chair next to Molly. “Anne really knows how to feed you up.” He was overly attentive throughout the meal and tried to wangle personal information out of her about her love life and her exact relationship with Sherlock which made her uncomfortable. She brushed off his inquiries as best she could without being rude, not wanting to share private confidences with someone she barely knew. Across the table, seated between Scott and Sarah, Sherlock glared at Harold who took no notice of the icy, murderous stares he was receiving.

The food was delicious. They started with a chilled strawberry soup followed by grilled pike fillets over creamed leeks. The main course was a stunning leg of lamb accompanied by roasted asparagus and fondant potatoes. Then there was a crisp, refreshing salad and for dessert, Cook had prepared a gloriously rich, boozy trifle. Stilton, walnuts, and grapes ended the meal as the port was passed around the table.

“That was amazing,” Molly said, taking a last sip of the wine. She had that relaxed, happy feeling one gets after a satisfying meal in fine company. “That was as good, if not better, than you can get in London. Your cook is extremely talented to coax such depth of flavour out of her ingredients.” Anne looked pleased at the compliment.

After dinner they all went into yet another sitting room where Anne played Schubert on the piano with Sherlock adding nuance on his violin. Robert almost immediately fell asleep in a big easy chair leaving Sarah, Molly, Scott and Harold to engage in light conversation. Soon enough Molly felt herself grow sleepy, her eyelids starting to close, her head starting to nod. She yawned and then giggled, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day,” she explained to Sarah. “It’s been a wonderful first day but I’m going to have to retire soon. I simply can’t stay awake.” Luckily, a short time later Anne and Sherlock called it an evening and everyone went off to bed.

***


	16. Dance With Me

**Dance With Me**

_Fly me to the moon  
Let me play among the stars  
Let me see what spring is like  
On Jupiter and Mars  
In other words, hold my hand  
In other words, baby, kiss me  
Fill my heart with song  
And let me sing for ever more  
You are all I long for  
All I worship and adore  
In other words, please be true  
In other words, I love you_

—that night—

Molly woke up in the middle of the night with a pleasant feeling that someone was calling her name. She sat up. A strong shaft of light from the full May moon, the milk moon, fell in through her window and across her bed, casting the room in shimmering silver. 

Throwing the covers aside, she got out of bed, crossed the room, and looked out the open window. The garden below her glowed temptingly in the moonlight — pale light slanting off burgeoning flowers, playing hide and seek with the smooth rounded sides of cool, mossy boulders. Beyond the dark slate patio a grassy lawn spotted with daisies beckoned and farther away still, along the brick wall edging the little park, cherry trees with their delicate blossoms trembled in a slight breeze, their petals falling upon the lawn in tender drifts like pink snow. 

She leaned out of the window and drew a deep breath of the delicious night air. Wafting up from the ground beneath her little room in the round turret, the darkness smelled of young, green shoots, damp earth, and fresh, rising secrets once buried under winter snows. 

It had been so long, she realized, since she’d been out in nature, tied as she was to the pavements of London and to her daily treks from home to work and back again. The clanging of the tube cars, the sounds of traffic and hissing air brakes; loud, metal sounds of machinery and crowds of busy humans had obscured the steady, quiet rhythms of the natural world. She hadn’t known how much she’d missed seeing acres of greenery, of hearing the soft whisper of wind through the trees and the gentle murmuring of winding streams until tonight’s moon had cracked the night open to show her what she had lost.

Enchanted by the magic of the moment and irresistibly drawn to the nighttime shadows, she put her robe on over her long nightgown, stepped into her slippers, and crept down the stairs to explore the moonlight. Once outside and attracted by the cool, splashing sounds from a stone fountain, she made her way to the night garden.

It seemed silent at first, as if everything in the world was sleeping, but as she wandered on soft earthen paths amongst the early blooms, she became aware of the small, scraping noises of burrowing insects in twig and leaf, the steady chirp of crickets, the snuffle of a waddling hedgehog in search of plump, juicy earthworms in the flower beds, and the plaintive song of a nightingale away in the fruit trees. She could hear the faint burbling of the stream that flowed out of the moor, meandering along near the bottom of the garden. The moonlight cast the world in a grey, velvety mystery and it was so magical she wouldn’t have been surprised to see fairies flitting playfully nearby, hovering about the water in the bowl of the fountain.

Sitting down on a old granite bench etched with faded lichens, she looked around. Spring flowers filled the garden, highlighted by the glow of the moon. Pale, delicate tulips, their heavy heads nodding sleepily, tender yellow primroses, clusters of white and purple crocus, carpets of pink phlox. Nearby, drops of gathering dew glittered on a spiderweb, its inhabitant patiently waiting for an unlucky moth or mayfly to pass by and become ensnared in sticky threads. In the distance she spied a red fox creeping along the brick wall, his sensitive nose on the trail of a mouse. She watched him until he trotted out of sight and silently wished him well in his hunting.

She took a deep breath of the fragrant air, feeling it infusing her, filling her up with timeless, precious wonder. Picking a few sweet narcissus, she wove their long stems into a simple flower crown before getting up and wandering onto on the lawn, her slippered feet sinking into the thick, springy grass, feeling connected to a deep, joyful, witchy magic. The spring night was intoxicating. Spreading her arms wide she began to twirl, her face lifted towards the moon, drinking in the richness surrounding her. 

The chill night air hardened the peaks of her breasts against the sheer fabric of her white nightgown, and she was struck with the desire to strip off all her clothes to dance naked in the moonlight. Instead, she merely slipped out of her robe, dropping it onto the grass behind her, tempering her youthful impulses with the wise practicality of maturity. However remote the possibility, she thought, it wouldn’t do to be caught out of doors with nothing on.

She drew the elastic from her ponytail, letting her hair tumble over her shoulders and down her back, shaking it free, reveling in her strong body, the compelling night, and the bewitching moonlight. Placing the flower wreath upon her head she started to dance as she had done in her youth, not really remembering the steps to the ballet but keeping her form nonetheless. She spun and twirled for a long time, her arms curved gracefully over her head as she pirouetted and leaped across the lawn, feeling at one with the power of the moon. Caught up in her revelry she failed to notice the tall, dark form of a man approaching her from across the garden until he was nearly upon her.

“Molly?” Sherlock questioned, his voice cutting through the air, shattering the silence. He could barely believe it was her.

She stopped abruptly, spun to face him, her eyes wide, her hand flying to her mouth. “Sherlock!” 

“I saw you from the house,” he explained, pointing to his bedroom window. “I…I couldn’t sleep, and I was looking out the window at the moonlight. I thought you were some kind of ethereal creature, perhaps an angel brought to life by the moon? I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.” He stopped a meter away from her, dressed in his pajama bottoms, his robe hanging open, revealing his bare chest. 

He was looking at her with an expression she’d never seen before – his eyes glittering, full of sudden need, of ancient desire. The moonlight made her gown almost transparent and he couldn’t seem to stop staring. He shook his head, trying to clear it of this incredible, captivating vision.

She drew a deep breath, wondering if she, too, was dreaming. He looked so handsome, the moon shining on his rumpled hair, darkening his eyes, highlighting his sharp cheekbones, his plush lips, the little hairs on his chest. “Oh,” she breathed, her breath hitching, struck by his beauty; he looked like some kind of Greek god. Her stomach did a pleasant little flip.

Buoyed by the provocative effects of the moon she was overtaken by impishness. She giggled, and with a grin, impulsively slid her right hand into his left, placing her other hand on his shoulder. “Dance with me,” she whispered, drawing close to him and looking up into his bemused face. Locking his eyes with hers, still unsure if he was awake or asleep, he put a firm hand on her waist and eagerly led her into a waltz, humming the tune in his deep baritone as they stepped and glided across the deep, cool grass, spinning around and around. The radiant moonlight urged them on, pouring recklessly through the night as they danced faster and faster until they were dizzy, giddy with laughter, and eventually slowed.

“Stop!” she gasped, her eyes full of merriment, her hand over her heart. “I can’t breathe!”

He drank her in, his gaze raking her body, his chest heaving, his eyes filling with lust. His hand came up to caress her cheek, his fingers sliding around to the back of her neck. “Jesus, Molly,” he murmured, overcome by desire. He didn’t hesitate, pulling her to him, wrapping her up in his strong arms, quickly bending down to capture her lips in a greedy, ravenous kiss.

She leaned into him, pressing herself against his firm body, winding her arms around him, pulling him close, her knees shaking. His tongue was in her mouth, sliding against hers, hungry and insistent; he was practically devouring her and she thrilled to his touch, kissing him back wholeheartedly, wanting to get lost in his lips forever. 

But suddenly, she became aware that the sheerness of her nightgown meant she stood practically naked in front of him and that they were kissing again, something she had vowed not to do. 

The strange yearning which had drawn her outside in the middle of the night cracked apart, the spell broken, and she remembered her sunlit life, of Greg waiting for her in town, of work and responsibilities which didn’t involve aching dreams of dancing with a phantom lover in a moonlit garden. Breaking away from him she placed one hand on his chest in warning and slid the other over his mouth. “I…I can’t,” she whispered. “We can’t do this.” She twisted away from him, turned and quickly fled back to the house. 

“Molly!” he shouted after her. “Stop this nonsense!” Shaking his head, confused and angry, he looked down. During their kiss, her flower crown had tumbled off. He picked it up along with her robe, standing alone under the fading light of the now setting moon, his heart sinking as watched her white, luminous form disappear into the shadows surrounding the house. 

God how he wanted her! But she had been very clear with her words back in London that awful night, if somewhat mixed in her actions since then. He wouldn’t go where he wasn’t wholly wanted. It was imperative he honor her wishes, he thought, and he sadly realized regaining her love, her trust, was going to take more time than he wanted and some monumental restraint on his part. With a dissatisfied sigh he slowly trailed after her.

Molly ran back into the house, up the staircase, and into her room which was when she remembered she’d left her robe outside. She peered out the window but the lawn was empty — no Sherlock, no robe. He must have picked it up. Crawling into bed, her cheeks burning, she pulled the covers up to her chin and curled up on her side. What am I doing? she reprimanded herself, mortified. Twice in one day!

It was nature’s fault, she thought. She’d been moon-drunk, helpless under its spell, and she’d acted foolishly, dancing around nearly unclothed in the middle of the night. She would have to be more careful, more vigilant, in the future. Learning to be friends was just a messy endeavor, she reasoned, with all the baggage between them. It would take a little while, but if she was firm with herself and with him, they could manage it.

But she couldn’t get his eyes out of her mind as she closed hers, trying to fall asleep, the intoxicating moonlight still coursing through her blood. His eyes haunted her, dark and filled with passion, wanting her, shining in her memory as they danced together. His strong arms around her as he drew her close, his warm, eager body pressed up against hers, arousing her with his kiss. They’d fit together so beautifully. 

She was still aflame, stirred up, could still feel the spark of having him so near, the heat of his lips on hers. Unable to stop her mind she imagined feeling his large, capable hands on her, stroking her cheek, her neck, her back, her thighs, the needful, private spot between her legs. Running her hands over herself she pretended they were his hands, warm and smooth against her trembling skin.

Grunting, she kicked off the covers and flipped over onto her back, pulling up her nightgown, her hands wandering over her body as she began to slowly caress her breasts. She teased her nipples into hard peaks, feeling the moisture beginning to bloom between her thighs as shivers of desire shot through her. Her hand drifted down over her belly and between her parted legs. She started to stroke herself, moaning, her hips rolling and pushing.

Sherlock, out in the hallway on his way back to his bedroom a few doors down, silently draped the collar of her robe over her doorknob. He heard a moan of pleasure coming from her room and he paused, a realization cutting through him — she was as worked up by their moonlit adventure as he was. The sounds continued. 

Leaning against the door jamb he closed his eyes, clearly imagining what she was doing right that very moment. He felt a quick rush of blood to his cock. He wanted to burst into her room, take her in his arms and make love to her, bringing them both to their climax and never leaving her side again. Imagining her arms around him, surrounded by her slick depths, he could feel himself stiffening, his longing for her growing.

She began to pant and groan, rubbing herself faster, straining against her own hand, finding the spot deep inside that made her shudder and breathe his name. “Sherlock…” she cried, her hips grinding, her back arching.

He shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down so he wouldn’t make a noise, nearly overcome at the sound of her calling his name in the throes of her passion. Turning, he silently crept down the hall, back to his room to take care of his own need. Throwing himself onto his bed, he tucked her flower crown under his pillow, flipped onto his back, and began to stroke himself towards his own release. It wasn’t until later, after he was done, that it really hit home she’d called his name and not Greg’s. He fell asleep with a smile on his face — another, better plan formulating in his mind.

***


	17. A Proposition

**A Proposition**

_All of me, why not take all of me?  
Can't you see that I'm no good without you  
Take my arms I want to lose them  
Take my lips I'll never use them  
Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry  
And I know that I am no good without you  
You took apart that once was my heart  
So why not take all of me?_

  


Molly woke up late. It was almost 9 a.m. She managed to get washed, dressed and make it to the breakfast room before the food was cleared. Lord Robert sat at the head of the long table, perusing his newspaper, his wife opposite, Scott’s nose was buried in his phone, and Harold was leafing through a stack of papers.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, filling a plate with scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh, sweet strawberries before sitting down next to Robert and reaching for the jam pot. She gave him a warm smile. He nodded back. “Jam for your toast, Robert?”

“Hmm, yes,” he replied, smiling at her from around his newspaper. “That would be very nice.” She spooned a generous dollop onto his plate.

“Good morning, Molly dear,” Anne said. “Everyone’s up a little late today. I hope the moon didn’t keep you awake.” She took a hit off her joint and extended it to Sherlock who was sitting, staring blankly at his plate upon which lay one slice of toast with one bite taken out of it. He wasn’t quite awake yet either. 

He shook his head at her offer. “Not for me, this morning,” he said. “Maybe later.”

“The moon was so bright last night wasn’t it?” Anne went on. “I was up until all hours myself. Very beautiful, rather strong energy. Just right for a secret bit of midnight gaiety.” She smiled to herself, making Molly colour and wonder if she’d seen them dancing and kissing. “Scott, eat some fruit. The strawberries are particularly lovely this year. And Sherlock, get Molly some tea.” She pushed on his arm.

He roused himself. “What? Oh, right. Coffee or tea, Molls?”

“Coffee please, Sherlock. Cream and sugar this morning, I think.”

“Mr. Yamaguchi tells me he’s very encouraged with the new Rambouillet sheep,” Harold said, out of the blue. “Their wool is superior, of course. Seventeen microns! I don’t know why he didn’t try them last year. They would be an entire year ahead in their breeding program.”

“Very interesting,” Robert said, putting his tea cup down. “Never seen less than 19 microns, myself. I have high hopes for their endeavors, but yes, they should have started breeding earlier. Which reminds me, have you spoken to Mrs. Klobosh at the college about the fibre structure exhibit? It should be nearly ready.” He winced and rubbed his stomach. Harold nodded and made a note.

“Are you not feeling well again, my love?” Anne asked, with concern. He shrugged. “You should take it easy today. Rest.”

“I take it easy every day,” Robert grumbled. “Doesn’t seem to help.”

“Well, it’s going to be a beautiful day,” she rejoined. “You should soak up some sun in the back garden. That’ll be good for you.”

“Chess later, my dear?” he suggested to his wife. 

She smiled and nodded. “I want to work on my painting for a bit this morning, whilst the light is good. This afternoon, if you’re up for it?” He nodded.

Molly gave Robert a sympathetic look. “Do they know what the trouble is?”

“Stomach cancer, most likely,” Harold muttered.

Anne glared at him. “It’s not…that!” she exclaimed. “They don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s not…that. You can’t say that, Harold, or even think it.” Her face darkened and she nervously took another puff off her joint.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what have they, your doctors, been testing you for?” Molly asked, gently. “Sorry to intrude but I love diagnostics and testing. It’s one of my favorite aspects of medicine.”

“Nobody’s better at it,” Sherlock was quick to say, setting down her coffee.

“Except you,” Molly said, dryly.

“Except me,” he agreed, smugly.

“And except for the whole medicine part,” she teased.

Robert put down his paper and gave her a kindly look. “It’s nice of you to ask, my dear,” he said. “But I’ve had so many tests over the last year I can’t remember what half of them were for. They don’t seem to turn up anything. I guess it’s just old age settling in. System’s gone off. ‘Non-specific decline.’ That’s the general consensus. Well, I’ve had a good, long run. Not going to complain. Much.” He laughed, lightly. 

Anne looked as if she might burst into tears. “Don’t say that!” she said. “You can’t leave me! It’s…not allowed!” She jumped up and rushed out. Robert let out a heavy, sad sigh. An awkward silence settled around the table. 

Scott got up, threw a nasty glance at Harold and went after her. “Nana…” he called. “Come help me build my airplane. I’m doing the fuselage today.” Their voices trailed off as they moved down the hallway together.

“Oops,” Harold said, without a shred of sincerity. He shrugged. “Well, there’s no use beating around the bush. Honesty’s the best policy.”

“Harold, I don’t mind for myself,” Robert admonished, calmly and evenly, as was his way. “But don’t upset Lady Anne. Not in this house. I won’t have it.” He rose and taking his cane, slowly left the room and headed off towards the back garden, the dogs following him.

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at Harold, his eyes shooting sparks. “Fuck you, Hal,” he snapped. “You’re such an arsehole. If it wouldn’t upset Anne and make a mess, I’d rip your head off.”

“Just being honest,” Harold stated, unperturbed. “Isn’t that kinder, in the long run?”

“I used to think that, too,” Sherlock replied, coldly. “But I was mistaken. People are more fragile than you think. Words cut. That was cruel. You should apologize.” Molly stared at him in astonishment, not believing that had just come out of his mouth. When had Sherlock ever cared about other people’s feelings?

“Well,” Harold said, straightening his papers and pretending he hadn’t heard, “I’ve got a meeting at the Wool Centre at half 10. Be seeing you.” He tapped his temple with two fingers in a salute and left.

“Yikes,” Molly commented, taking a last bite of her eggs. “That was unpleasant, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock propped his head on his hand, his upper arm leaning across the bare mahogany table. “I told you he was a dickhead. Sorry to bring you into a household filled with sickness and death, Molly. Maybe I should have thought this through more thoroughly,” he said, looking glum.

“It’s okay,” she answered. “It is a beautiful house, I’m happy to be here, and they’re very kind people. Except for Harold, that is. He’s…rude. They’re just in a bad spot right now and I’m sure having you here is a great comfort to them. Robert and Anne are lovely, and so is Sarah. I take back anything mean I said about her.” 

He smiled and nodded in agreement. “They are that. What do you want to do today? I’m going to walk into the village. Stretch my legs, check in at the coffee shop. I’ve solved the case of Mr. Dudley’s missing valuables. Want to join me?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she responded. “Is there a gift shop or antique store in the village? I want to get Anne a hostess gift.”

He nodded. “There’s a nice little place that has a decent selection.”

“And maybe this afternoon Sarah will teach me how to make lace.”

“We’ll be back in plenty of time,” he assured her. “She won’t be up for a couple more hours, anyway.”

“I still want to look at that amazing compound microscope in the library,” she said. “We don’t have anything that nice back at the lab, even with the new ones your brother so generously provided.” She winked at him. “I bet I could hook a computer up through it to Bart’s database. Try some testing. Although I’m not sure what I’d look at.”

“You hacker,” he grinned. “They’ve got hundreds of prepared slides in the library, some of them dating back over a century. That should keep you busy for a while. Fascinating stuff. After that, there’s lots of dirt, worms, and leaves in the conservatory.” 

They got up, she fetched her purse, and they slipped out of the house through the north door, off the kitchen. Sherlock took the opportunity to introduce Molly to Cook and the kitchen staff. 

The kitchen was enormous and Cook showed it off proudly to Molly, letting her peek into the stillroom where long shelves were lined with row upon row of beautiful, colourful homemade jams, jellies, and chutneys, as well as fruit and vegetable preserves in glass mason jars, all carefully labeled. “This kitchen used to feed nearly 100 people every day,” Cook said. “When the house was full of family and guests. Maybe it will again, some day,” she added, hopefully. “These days we mainly do the big cooking for the mid-day meal at St. Paul’s Shelter in the village. It’s good we’re still contributing to the welfare of the community.”

She returned to her bowl where she was mixing a large Victoria sponge for tonight’s pudding. Sherlock dipped his finger into the batter, popped it into his mouth and got a tea towel snapped in his direction for his cheek. Laughing, he hurriedly pulled Molly out the door.

The short cut they took into the village led through a large wood filled with tall, broad, maple, chestnut, and beech trees, young bracken carpeting the ground. A light breeze stirred the fresh, green leaves overhead as they walked on a well trodden path through the dappled sunshine. Molly took a deep, contented breath. The weather was perfect today — breathtakingly blue skies, puffy white clouds sailing by, an occasional bird singing in the branches.

“It’s so charming here,” she remarked. “This feels like the hundred acre wood.”

He looked around. “It does, that,” he agreed. Hesitating for a minute, he bit his lip before taking a deep breath and plunging ahead. “Say, erm, Molly…I think we need to have a little chat.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and started walking faster.

“It’s just…I’m getting some mixed messages,” he continued. “Some confusing signals.”

She picked up speed.

“I don’t understand why you’ve been kissing me,” he tried, lengthening his stride to keep up with her. She was practically scurrying. Any second now and she’d break into a run. “I can only think of one logical explanation. And last night—“

“Excuse me,” she cut in, slowing down only a little, “you’re the one kissing me!”

“Well, okay, but it’s not like you’ve objected; you kiss me back. Until you run away. What’s going on with that?” He seemed legitimately confused.

She didn’t answer, her head down, concentrating on the ground in front of her as she sped down the path, trying not to trip over the odd, exposed tree root. He took her elbow, trying to pull her up, but she shook him off and kept going.

“Molly, I’m just going to say it. I’ve been thinking about this, about us, and I think we should sleep together.”

She stopped dead in her tracks and wheeled on him, speechless. “Wha—what did you say?” she finally managed.

“Sleep together. Engage in sexual intercourse. Just once,” he added, with a spread of his hands. “To see, to find out, if we’re compatible in that area.”

“Are you insane?” she demanded, her eyes wide with shock.

“No, I don’t think so,” he returned, mildly. “Last time I checked, anyway. Although I do have to admit it runs in my family,” he added, smiling. “Mycroft is bonkers, you know. We could go up to Gidleigh Park, spend the night. Tomorrow’s Friday and the _tourists_ will be swarming the house for the next two days,” he groaned. “Best to be out of the way.”

“What’s Gidleigh Park?” 

“Oh, it’s a country hotel, up in the moor,” he said. “Used to be an old manor house. Beautiful, discreet, luxurious. It’s perfect. I’ll just say I want to show you Dartmoor. No one will think twice about it.”

“Why would we do that, exactly?” she asked, confused. “What’s the point?”

“Because we’ve been dancing around each other for ages and I thought we should. Could. Find out, I mean. If it’s awful and horrible then we’ll know. And if it’s not, well then, you’ll have some reconsidering to do.” He gazed at her, equitably, not a sign of manipulation on his face.

“So this is about you wanting to get laid,” she said, her lips flattening together into a thin line. “First time in forever,” she muttered.

“No, this is about me trying to get you to forgive me for all the hurt I caused you. Molly, I freely admit I acted like a moron for years, that I was cruel and heartless because I was running away from my feelings, but I’m trying to change all of that now, to make it up to you.” He took a step towards her.

She backed up until she was stopped by a large oak tree. “I know how I feel when we kiss,” he continued, his eyes almost luminescent, fixed upon hers, an indescribable colour coupled with an expression that took her breath away. “And I think you feel it, too. But since you won’t admit it, why not experiment? Prove me wrong, Molly,” he dared her.

“I’ve told you before,” she said, with some heat. “I’m not an experiment.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. You’d be experimenting on me,” he corrected, with a little shake of his head. “I’m the test subject, you’re the examiner. You can do whatever you like with me. A compatibility study. For science.” He gave her a warm, agreeable smile.

She met his assured gaze. His words reminded her why she had been angry at him in the first place. Remembering his blatant usury and his callous disregard of her feelings over the years, her back straightened. “Anything? I can do anything? What’s your pain tolerance?” she bit out.

He balked, seeing the terrifying possibilities blooming in her eyes. “Well, obviously not _anything_ ,” he laughed, uncomfortably. “No murdering or cutting…things…off. No revenge, although god knows I deserve whatever you want to dish out. I’ll throw myself on your mercy. Everything would be up to you. You’d take the initiative, you’d have the advantage. I won’t do anything you don’t want to, or anything you don’t ask for.” He spread his hands.

She considered his words for a moment but then shook her head. “No. You have got to be joking,” she asserted. “If you’re making fun of me I swear to god…”

He took another small step closer to her. “I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he murmured. “I’d like to give you more…pleasure than you know what to do with.” The way his voice deepened, the way he pronounced the word “pleasure” made her insides melt.

There was a boundless light in his eyes she’d never seen before, bright and gleaming. A strange, excited tingle flashed through her before she internally pushed it away. “If you’re so interested in fucking,” she growled, “why not do it here? There’s a clump of bracken right over there.” She pointed off into the woods. “We’ve got an extra ten minutes. Have at it and be done.”

“When we could have a large, comfortable bed with silk sheets,” he argued, smoothly. “Plump, eiderdown pillows. Me feeding you strawberries dipped in cream. An entire day of delicious anticipation. Slow, lingering attention. Ten minutes isn’t nearly enough time for what I have in mind.” He arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes falling boldly over her body. “So you’re wrong, Molly. It wouldn’t be just _fucking_.” He curled his lips scornfully around the word and she was surprised to discover some part of her wouldn’t mind if it was.

“But…what about…” she looked around, trying to find another objection. “What about Greg?”

He snorted. “Well into this conversation already and you’re only bringing him up now? That speaks volumes. Plus, you’ve already cheated on him anyway, twice so far, and we’ve still got nine days to go. The odds aren’t in his favour.”

“Yes, but sex counts more than kissing,” she argued.

“Ah, so now you’re using a sliding scale,” he noted, with a sly smile, taking a tiny step towards her.

“Some acts are more meaningful than others,” she persevered.

“Are they, when you’re talking about infidelity?” he asked. “Doesn’t duplicity first happen in the mind?” He angled his head at her. “Isn’t that where it really takes place? And after you’ve crossed that threshold, it’s only a matter of which body part to use.”

“Christ, I hate your logic,” she grumbled. “That wasn’t fair.” 

He shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war,” he said. “And this is love, Molly. This is definitely love.”

“But I don’t sleep around casually,” she frowned, scraping the bottom of her barrel of protestations and ignoring his use of _that_ word. “I haven’t done that since my 20s.”

“Oh, this wouldn’t be casual,” he said, taking a last step towards her. He was inches away now, his penetrating blue eyes fixed on hers. “This is anything but casual.”

“But what about ‘my body is just transport?’ What happened to that quaint little notion of yours?”

“You changed it,” he replied, steadily, his voice deep and rumbling. “Forever.”

His focused intensity was wearing her down. “Tell me more about Gidleigh Park,” she said, trying to buy a little more time to enjoy thinking about the possibilities before she was forced to reject him.

“It’s lovely,” he responded, quietly. “It’s in a wooded valley with a rushing river you can hear from your bedroom at night. It’s understated and indulgent, with impeccable service and a Michelin starred chef. A phenomenal wine cellar. The best food in Devon.” He leaned down a little and lowered his voice so she had to strain to hear. “You can walk along the river Teign up onto the moor to see Gidleigh Tor and Scorhill stone circle. The high moor is like another world, Molly. Fragrant heather. Short, adorable cattle. Wheeling kestrels.” His lips were near to hers now, so close, just a breath away. “At night you can hear foxes and the sky is enormous, bursting with stars. They have croquet and horses. You’ll enjoy it,” he whispered. “You’ll enjoy everything about it.”

“But…” she said, and then fell silent, realizing she had run out of objections. He had her pinned, hypnotized, like a snake on a mouse. Her eyes fell onto his plush, impossible lips as he slowly lowered his head towards her. She caught her breath and found herself quivering in anticipation.

He leaned in, closing the remaining distance between them, his mouth meeting hers, his lips gentle, warm and searching, lifting his palm to cup her cheek. She put her hand on his chest meaning to push him away but instead, unable to help herself, her fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling it. She opened her mouth and his exploring tongue sought hers in a soft, languid caress. Her eyes drifted shut and she leaned into him with a sigh, sliding her fingers around his shoulders and up into his silky curls. He wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss, pushing her against the tree that supported them. Finally breaking their embrace, he smiled as he pulled away from her, crinkle lines appearing around his eyes. “Yes?” he asked, hopefully.

She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Sherlock, I—“

He immediately kissed her again, harder this time, more demanding, cutting off her objection as well as any cognitive powers she had remaining. Pushing his tongue past her lips he ravished her mouth, his hands wandering, stroking and exciting her, pulling her against his insistent body. 

He was invoking all kinds of wild feelings within her; desire rippled through her and soon her will was faltering as much as her knees. She felt dizzy but all she wanted in this moment was to have his lips and hands moving enticingly over her, his need erasing all thought, all doubt. She panted into his mouth as she surrendered, kissing him back fervently, mindlessly, letting out a guttural moan.

He stopped suddenly, leaving her feeling bereft, confused, and slightly stunned. “I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll make the reservations.”

 _That was much easier than I thought it would be_ , his brain observed.

“Holy shit,” Molly breathed, not quite believing to what she’d just agreed. She couldn’t think properly; he could be deliciously commanding when it suited him. Still, she had the distinct impression she’d just been railroaded, overpowered by the sheer force of his desire. At the same time a warming flush spread through her as she reveled in his hunger for her, in this raw expression of his need. “Three times,” she whispered.

“Four,” he corrected, laughing as he took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and led her into the village. Once in the little coffee shop, she queued up for their beverages whilst he found an empty table and rang Gidleigh Park. His clients started to jostle for position.

They spent about an hour there, a good portion of which Sherlock spent patiently explaining to the thick-headed Mr. Dudley — a transplanted Yorkshireman with a broad northern accent — that it wasn’t the hired girl stealing their valuables. It was Mrs. Dudley herself who was taking the small pieces of jewelry and the silver spoons, getting on the bus to Launcetown or Hatherleigh and pawning them to pay for her horse gambling at William Hill whilst he worked at the local small engine repair shop. After he expressed incredulity, saying his missus didn’t know anything about “the hoorse runnings,” Sherlock described how he’d followed her three separate times last week and told him to look under their mattress for the racing guide. If Mr. Dudley still had doubts, he could ask at William Hill. They knew her well. The man left, steaming.

Molly wasn’t paying attention to the stream of locals coming to sit at their table and spin their silly, unsolved mysteries for him, although she did notice he was being uncharacteristically tolerant. Normally he’d be shouting about their stupidity and throwing them out. But he was patient, kind, and understanding with everyone who sat down at their table. Distantly, she wondered what had caused this change in him, never dreaming it was herself he was trying to impress.

Instead, she sipped her latte and stared at his hands as he listened and talked in turn with his clients. They were beautiful, his hands — the long, delicate, sensitive fingers tipped with calluses from his violin strings, the network of large veins rising under the smooth skin, the little blonde hairs curving above the knuckles, the clean, perfectly manicured nails. Although she already knew how capable and talented he was with them, before today she hadn’t studied them this closely for this long. Her mind wandering, she suddenly realized that tomorrow night those gorgeous hands would be exploring and caressing her body’s private, secret places. She made a small, involuntary noise.

“You okay?” he asked, holding up his hand to interrupt his latest client, a Mrs. Harbottle, as she insisted on his help.

Molly nodded. “Got some coffee down the wrong pipe,” she dissembled, pretending to cough. He reached over and patted her on the back. “Please, continue,” she urged. “I’m fine.”

“You see, Mrs. Harbottle,” he explained, carefully, to the imperious, grey-haired woman sitting opposite. “This isn’t really a _mystery_ , is it? Your neighbor’s dog digs up your prized petunias. That’s a matter for the constable, animal control, or perhaps the garden club. Thanks for coming to see me, though. Off you go.” He shooed her away and leaned towards Molly. “I’m done,” he whispered with a roll of his eyes. “I can’t take anymore. Get me out of here.”

She giggled and stood up. They went a few doors down into the antique shop to poke around, where Molly found two matching sterling silver Victorian bud vases in the Arts Nouveau style, swirling with elegantly drooping repousse tulips — one for Anne and one for Sarah. She also found two beautifully patinaed antique wooden drop spindles for Robert. 

In a corner of the shop Sherlock found a vintage handmade stuffed animal: a Tigger with an embroidered pink satin stitch nose and shiny, black button eyes. He bought it for Rosie on the spot.

“Very thoughtful gifts, Molly,” he noted as they went back out to the pavement. “Nothing for Harold?” he asked with a wink. She snorted and laughed. “Now, I need to run into the Chemist for a moment,” he added. 

“And I’m going to pop into this lingerie shop,” she said. “Quickly.”

“Meet you back here,” he nodded. She was out before he was, shifting from foot to foot on the pavement and checking her watch. He cocked an eyebrow as he sauntered out of the Chemist shop. “That didn’t take you very long.”

“I, erm, panicked,” she admitted, blushing. “I ran in there, grabbed the first thing I saw, threw some money at the girl and rushed out.” She giggled excitedly, her eyes sparkling. “I have no idea what I bought; I hope it fits.”

He peeked into her bag. “Are those pink leather knickers?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Nice,” he grinned, as he dropped the newly purchased box of condoms into her bag.

“God, Sherlock,” she said, her face suddenly creased with ambivalence, thinking about what they were going to do. “Am I making a mistake? He’ll never know, will he? Please tell me he’ll never find out.” She looked at him nervously and worried her bottom lip.

“He won’t hear it from me,” he assured her. “I don’t need him dogging me any more than he already does. You can always opt out, if you must. I’ve made the reservations and we can go just for the scenery but if you feel rotten about it, there’s no pressure.” He leaned in close and murmured in her ear. “Except for how badly I need you. Now, let’s go post this to my goddaughter before she forgets her Uncle Sherlock entirely.” He took her arm, steering her along as they headed down the street.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gidleigh Park is an actual old manor house turned hotel up in Dartmoor. I stayed there once, a glorious, beautiful, truly luxurious place that I still remember fondly more than a decade later. It’s closed now due to the pandemic, but it’s almost exactly how Sherlock describes it. Here is the url: https://www.gidleigh.co.uk/


	18. Pressure

**Pressure**

_I’ve tried and tried to run and hide  
To find a life that’s new  
But where I go I always know  
I can’t escape from you_

  


The afternoon went by in a blur. As soon as she got back Molly took one of the vases and found Anne in the sun-splashed conservatory, sitting on a tall stool at her easel, painting a still life of a bonsai tree with a scattering of strawberries in the foreground. 

The room was filled with a number of rattan tables, one draped with an embroidered, heavily fringed piano scarf, upon which were set various flowering hothouse plants: African violets, streptocarpus, orchids, lilies, gardenias, and the like. Scattered around the space were empty planting containers, trowels and clippers, bags of soil, a pitcher of water, a few cut crystal drinking glasses and a thick pile of art books, along with an ashtray with a few partially smoked blunts in it, in addition to her heavily used palette and several vintage ceramic jars stuffed with brushes. Other canvasses, in various degrees of completion, were stacked against the walls. 

It was warm, humid, and jungly with tall ferns and palms lining the glass walls, and blossoming bromeliads settling in the nooks of the trees. One corner held a low, cobblestone-walled garden of pineapple plants, the fruit just beginning to set. A rattan recliner, softened by chintz pillows, stood nearby and a large stone fountain resting on the worn slate floor splashed prettily. A few butterflies flitted around from bloom to bloom. The entire room was a glorious, incoherent riot of scent and colour.

As she entered the room Molly did a double take at six large, bushy plants standing under a grow light, each in their own container and reaching almost two meters in height with thin, jagged, dark green leaves and a particular, skunky smell. Huh, she thought. Lady Anne grows her own. Unbelievable.

“That’s quite good,” Molly said, admiring Anne’s work.

“Thank you, my dear,” Anne said, putting down her brush and turning towards her, gathering the folds of her caftan around her knees. “I thought the strawberries would give some scale to the bonsai, but now I’m reaching the point where I think they look like Godzilla sized fruits menacing this poor little tree.” She stood up and stepped back to assess the painting before making claws with her fingers. “Rawr!” she laughed. “I don’t know. It’s impossible to be satisfied with one’s own work, don’t you find?” she sighed.

“I think it looks very nice,” Molly said, wistfully. “Oh! You painted all those lovely still lifes in the breakfast room, didn’t you? I wish I was clever with my hands. Your whole family is so creative.”

“You have no hobbies?” Anne inquired. “You should find something that speaks to you, feeds your aura. It’s good for the soul, aligns and balances your chakras, builds…perspective. It’s always beneficial to become absorbed into something. Or into nothing at all,” she said, pausing to think before giving a little shrug. “I find the flow of process very mind altering and supportive. Isn’t it odd how quieting the ego ends up actually expanding one’s consciousness? Have you tried anything creative?”

“I used to knit, and I got rather good at it, but I haven’t done any in while,” Molly admitted. “I really enjoyed choosing and matching the yarns — the colors and textures.”

“Yes, that’s what wool will do for you,” Anne nodded. “Very enriching and satisfying to the hand and eye. Soothes the creative itch in the fingers. So what do you do in your spare time?”

“Mostly I read for work which I enjoy, but it’s not the same thing as a hobby. I play with my cat, watch telly and sometimes I help Sherlock with his cases. I like to bake. Now that I’ve said that,” she laughed, “it sounds awfully boring, doesn’t it? But I don’t have gobs of free time. I tend to work a lot. Well, Sarah is going to teach me to make lace this afternoon so we’ll see what happens,” she grinned.

“Ugh! Lace!” Anne commented dramatically with a flick of her wrist. “I tried it when Sarah first started but it made me so nervous! All those tangly threads, the snarls, it’s so tiny and complex…” she shuddered. “Mathematical, too. I was hopeless. Maybe you’ll take to it, though,” she said, looking at her so steadily with her serene grey eyes that Molly felt a bit too seen. “Some people have a knack for smoothing the path in front of them,” Anne continued. “It’s like combing hair, in a way. Sorting things out, order out of chaos, gathering things together. I bet you’re good at that. How are you settling in?”

The abrupt change of topic threw Molly for a moment, she wasn’t sure what Anne had been saying, but she quickly collected herself. “Very well, thanks,” she replied. “Your home is stunning and I love my little yellow bedroom, although I still get lost,” she laughed. “I wanted to bring you a little something for your graciousness in having me to stay,” she said, holding out the vase. “As a thank you.”

Anne took the silver vase and a look of pure pleasure spread across her features. “Why, it’s lovely!” She exclaimed, turning it around in her graceful hands for a better view. “Arts Nouveau really is the most elegant artistic style, don’t you think? The lines are so…supple, so evocative. I just adore Arts Nouveau. Look at those beautifully done little tulips. Thank you, Molly. You didn’t have to. I love having people to stay and I’ve wanted to meet you for ever so long.” 

“Ever so long?” Molly repeated, wondering what she could mean by that.

“Mmhm,” Anne murmured, wandering over to a flowering maple. She broke off a small branch and dropped it into the vase. Placing it next to her easel she added a splash of water and sat back on her stool to admire it. “I’ve known about you for years. Indian mallow,” she observed, pointing at the arrangement she’d just made. “Related to the hibiscus. Very pretty. Doesn’t that burnt orange colour look well next to the silver? And the droopiness of the mallow echoes the tulips, without being too _en pointe_. Yes. Just sublime,” she said, with satisfaction.

“Yes, it’s…quite pretty,” Molly agreed, beginning to wonder if Anne ever tracked a thought for more than three minutes together. “There were two at the shop, so I picked up the other one for Sarah. I thought she might enjoy it on her breakfast tray.”

“Oh, how did you know?” Anne cried.

“Know what?” Molly’s mind was starting to spin, having difficulties following what was going on in Anne’s brain. She was obviously a lovely, kind person but somewhat scattered, seemingly existing on an alternative plane, floating out in the aethers somewhere. There was something unsettlingly precise yet otherworldly about her.

“The crystal one we’ve been using slid off her tray last week and smashed into a thousand pieces. It belonged to my grandmother. Sarah was so upset and Tanya was completely devastated. So this is double the perfection. You see, sometimes things have to get broken in order to make way for whatever’s manifesting,” she nodded, sagely. “I think you must be tuned into cosmic energies.”

“Perhaps,” Molly ventured, “although I’m not personally very keen on the notion of planetary influences and—“

“Oh, but of course you are,” Anne said, firmly, dismissing her statement with a toss of her hand. “In touch with the angelic existing here, in the midst of the mundane, I mean. I can tell just by looking at you. There’s no other explanation. Now, how’s your love life? You and Sherlock?”

“Sh—Sherlock and I aren’t…together,” Molly stammered. “We’re not—“

“Ah,” Anne interrupted, giving Molly another one of those looks that seemed to cut right through her. “Well, not in a complete ownership kind of way, of course. He wouldn’t like that. Too _bourgeoise_. But still, there’s something _there_ there, isn’t there?” She smiled to herself. “Some kind of…mutual belonging. He does nothing but compliment you, has for years now, and the way his face transforms when he speaks of you.” She heaved a romantic sigh and stared off into the distance. “It’s positively…concupiscent.”

“He’s…talked about me for years, to all of you?” Molly repeated, shocked, making a mental note to look up that word when she had a minute alone. “Really? I had no idea.”

Anne nodded. “Of course. He holds you in extremely high regard. A little too much, I think, for it to be rooted in the material, in mere, dry friendship. You know how scornful and superior he can be so when he really likes someone they must be enormously clever and possess a generous heart. One that matches his own.”

“You think Sherlock has a generous heart?” Molly asked, a little doubtful.

“Why of course he does! Don’t you know him at all? It comes out in interesting, obscure ways because he’s an unusual person, as the best people are, but oh, yes, it’s there. Look at why he’s here now. He’s a busy man solving his crimes and keeping the world safe from horrible murderers and terrorists and whatnot, yet he’s chosen to put all of that aside and stay here for as long as it takes to help my darling Sarah get well. That’s generosity. Not to mention his ingenious care of Scott. Have you noticed? He’s at Scott’s side the moment he starts to flag and leaves him alone when he needs space. He always keeps half an eye on him without letting Scott know, of course. Very important for teenagers, to let them think they’re autonomous. He’s tremendously attentive that way, knows exactly what to do. I’m sure he’ll make a lovely father. Spoil his own children terribly.” 

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Molly said. Maybe her anger at him had gotten in the way of her judgment, she thought. Perhaps she wasn’t seeing him clearly.

“I do so want him to be openly in love again,” Anne continued. “He was incredibly dashing and passionate about it. Pity it didn’t work out for them,” she said, apparently forgetting she was at least partly responsible for breaking it up, for crushing his youthful happiness. “I admire the woman who has enough goodness and wit to capture that great heart. And now, here you are,” she finished, peering thoughtfully at her as if she were envisioning the future.

Molly dropped her eyes and blushed, unable to withstand her intense gaze, her scrutiny. “I’m seeing a very nice man in London,” she said, firmly, trying to shut down Anne’s dreamy notion altogether. “He’s a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard. He’s very kind, very…steady.”

“Such a shame,” Anne murmured.

“That I’m dating someone?” Molly asked, a little miffed and trying not to show it.

“No, that he’s so steady,” Anne replied. “You like a bit of danger, I reckon.”

“I really don’t,” Molly laughed.

“My dear,” Anne explained, patiently. “You picked a profession which is highly unusual and isn’t exactly the epitome of boring. You could have chosen to be…I don’t know, a florist in a little shop somewhere. But for some reason, somehow, you and Sherlock met and befriended each other. Most likely it was the attraction of certain karma energies. You know, a fighting energy, a wind energy. Strong, green, cutting, action orientated. You both have that. And despite the obvious danger to yourself, you gladly help him with his cases. Look how you assisted him during that awful fake suicide business.”

“How did you kn—“

“Normal women,” Anne cut in, with a huff of disdain towards all things ordinary, “can’t run fast enough when they get to know him, scared to death of the risks he takes, of the things he gets involved in. I’ve seen it a hundred times over. But you’ve known him for years, you’ve known about the jeopardy he flirts with yet you’ve maintained that acquaintance. You didn’t run. No, you’re excited by the danger he presents.” She nodded knowingly. “You may protest and say you’re not drawn by it but we both know you are.”

“It’s true that Sherlock and I have a…complicated past, but we’re just friends now,” Molly said. She paused, realizing that made it sound as if they’d been more than friends at one point which was a little disconcerting. She considered Anne’s insights into her own attraction to danger, remembering how disappointed she had been when she discovered Greg could be a little bit…stale. But Anne was wrong about one thing, at least: she had run, she was still running, and now she was beginning to feel rather confused.

Anne laughed, a high, melodious tone that sounded like the water in the fountain in the center of the room. “Hmm,” she mused. “I was muddled, too, in my youth,” she commented. “But then I met Robert and settled down and we’ve had years and years of wedded bliss. I just knew from the outset. You’ll get there. I feel it.” She sat down, picked up her brush and thoughtfully tapped the end against her lips. “You blushed just now,” she noted. “I wonder, when was the last time ‘just a friend’ made anyone blush?” Turning back to her canvas, she smiled, relit her joint, and started painting again. “Thank you for the vase,” she finished.

Molly, a bit shaken, felt the interview was over so she said goodbye and slipped out of the conservatory. Out in the hallway, she pulled out her phone and googled “concupiscent.” It took her several tries to spell it properly. There it was. _Carnal, filled with desire, lustful_. “Jesus,” she muttered, as she set off in search of Robert to deliver his gifts.

She knocked on the door to Robert’s study and entered after hearing him say “come in.” He was sitting with his slippers on, facing a fireplace holding a few glowing embers which gave off a faint warmth, reading. A big black lab snoozed at his feet.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she began. “Sherlock and I were in the village this morning and I found these in the antique shop. I thought you might like them.” She passed over the spindles, and he took them, examining them carefully.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Molly,” he said. “I rarely get visitors so this is a treat for me.” He smiled, clearly pleased.

“What a cozy room!” she commented, looking around. The wall opposite the fireplace was lined floor to ceiling with old books, there was an antique mahogany desk with a red leather liner piled high with papers and blueprints, and there were two blue velvet wingback chairs arranged in front of the fireplace with a chess set off to the side. Leather wallpaper, too, she noted. Very posh. Light streamed in from a series of narrow, gothic style windows overlooking the back garden. A few plants rested on the carved stone mantelpiece which sported two gargoyles hanging onto the surround with clawed feet. “Ah, look at those guys!” she said, pointing at their grotesque, grinning faces. 

“This one’s Griff and that one’s Pog,” he informed her. “They keep me company.” 

The room had a rich, calm, masculine feel to it, she noticed as she glanced around. “Well, they’re adorable,” she said. “It’s comfortable in here, isn’t it? You must be very happy in your hideaway. Look at all these great books!”

“That’s my private fibre library,” he explained. “I love antique books. Been collecting them for five decades now; it’s not anywhere complete, though, so I guess I’ll have to stick around for a while yet.” He winked at her. “These are very nice,” he said, turning the spindles over in his hands. “French. From Lille, I think. Great patina. These were well used and well loved. Have a chair and talk to me, Molly Hooper.”

There was something about his soft tone and the use of her full name which struck a sympathetic chord in her. She sat down in the empty chair, leaned over and petted the dog. “Hi, puppy,” she said. He didn’t lift his head but rolled onto his back, exposing his belly as his tail thumped heavily against the Persian carpet under their feet, his tongue lolling. She gave him a thorough tummy rub. “Where are the other two?”

“That’s Barley,” he said, fondly. “He’s been with me a long time now. Ginger and Weed are probably in the kitchen, begging scraps off Cook.”

“Weed?” Molly asked. “That’s an interesting name for a dog.”

“Lady Anne thought it was funny,” he explained, his eyes sparkling with humour. “She wanted to see me standing on the back patio shouting ‘Weed!’ at the top of my lungs.”

She giggled and snorted. “So, Lord Robert, how can you tell where the spindles are from?” she asked.

“You can drop the Lord part. Call me Robert. I’m just a simple man,” he said. “Now, Molly, this heavy spindle shape is typically French. Every region has their favorite style and the French tend to like this one. Notice there’s no whorl; the thickness of these makes an additional weight unnecessary. And in this heavy ornamentation here, these three incised lines around the center, that’s typically Lille. These are made of walnut, a solid, fine grained wood, wears well, doesn’t split. Middle of the eighteenth century, I reckon. Drop spindles are precursors to the spinning wheel, you know; some people prefer them because they’re so portable. 

“This heavier weight is good for thicker, more substantial yarns because of the higher inertia you get,” he continued. “You want to be able to spin it long enough so that friction holds the fibres together before you lose the momentum. Here, I’ll show you. Fetch me that roving, will you?” He pointed at a basket behind her filled with carded wool coiled into long lengths, dyed a rich, smooth brown, ready to be spun. She passed it over. “Anne dyed this for me herself using onion skins. She used aluminum sulfate for the mordant so it took very nicely. Look at that sheen,” he said, holding it up to catch the light. “I’ve been meaning to spin this for a while now; I want to ply it with silk for softness. She promised me a knitted scarf,” he smiled.

He pulled off a length and separated it, quickly twisted a leader out of the wool and attached it to the spindle. Tucking the end of the roving into the loop he’d just made, he drafted out the fibres with a practiced hand and began to spin. Molly watched, fascinated.

“The fibres are scaly on a microscopic level,” he explained. “So they hook together and interlock when they’re drafted out and spun. You should take some and look at them under the microscope in the library,” he said, passing her a hunk. She tucked it in her pocket. “Then you’ll see how it works. Okay, you make a length of yarn from the spun wool, about half a meter or so, and then wind it into the spindle. You can either twirl it in the air which is why it’s called a drop spindle or some people like to roll it across their thigh like this,” he demonstrated. “See? This is now spun and I can wind it onto the spindle and keep going.”

“It goes so fast!” she exclaimed. “That’s amazing.”

“Want to try it?” he offered, passing the lot over to her. “Spin clockwise to make the yarn. When you’re plying — putting two or three strands of yarn together — you spin in the opposite direction. Look.” He held up the yarn. “See, the slant of the spin goes from the upper right to the lower left on the yarn, even when you hold it upside down. That’s called a Zed twist. The opposite is an S twist which people use when they’re plying. If you’re consistent you don’t have to worry about accidentally unspinning your yarn.”

Molly tried, sticking her tongue out a bit as she concentrated. She felt all thumbs. “You made it look so easy!” she laughed. “I need another hand.” She spun too lightly, the fibres separated and tore, the spindle falling onto the carpet.

“That’s another reason they call it a drop spindle,” he laughed. “It takes a while to get the hang of it,” he said, still chuckling warmly as she fumbled with the spindle, drafted out too much wool and created a slub, a blob of excess fibre in the yarn. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, encouragingly. “There’s lots of handspun that have slubs as a feature. Properly done, they add a nice texture.”

She continued to try, he made a few corrective comments, and soon she managed to spin a short, decent length of yarn. “Look!” she said, holding it up proudly. “I did it!”

“That’s very good,” he said. “You’ve got considerable control with your hands and fingers; more so than most. You have to practice drafting, to move an even number of fibres into the yarn, and to spin enough to get a nice, even length of yarn, but not too much so that it twists back on itself when you let go. Don’t overspin. Not too tight, not too loose — you kind of have to get into a Zen thing with it. It can be rather meditative. Each type of wool will tell you what it needs. You’re doing well. So, Molly, are your parents still living?” he asked conversationally, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together.

“My mum is,” she replied, focusing on the spinning. “She still lives in their cottage in Ramsgate. My dad passed away many years ago when I was a teenager.” Her eyes clouded over. “He would have been about your age had he lived. Liver cancer,” she said.

“You still miss him,” he noted, with a small bob of his head.

She nodded. “I do. He was a lovely man with a big heart. Always laughing, telling awful jokes, and playing little tricks, jokes, on my mum and me. He didn’t have much education but he revered it and was always pushing me to do my best at school even though all I wanted to do when I was young is be with him on his boat. He was a charter fisherman. He’d take the day tourists out for deep sea fishing in the channel. Dogfish and bass mostly, but also mackerel, cod and plaice. We didn’t have much money but we always had lots of fish for supper!” she laughed. “I can never eat fish without thinking of him,” she added, wistfully. “I think you’re wearing his cologne.”

He smiled, understanding that she was probably transferring her affection for her own father onto him. He didn’t mind; he was rather enjoying the comparison. “I think he would have been very proud of you,” he said. She smiled, pleased at his compliment. “You’ve come very far on your own. You’re not married?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m dating someone now but I don’t know if it’ll work out,” she replied, softly. “We’re still in the early stages. I’m not giving up though,” she finished with a nod. “I want to have children, though I suppose it isn’t required to marry for that. Still…”

“What about Sherlock?” he asked with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “He’s a decent young man. Make you a proper husband.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so. There was a lot of stuff between us. I lo…liked him at one time but it never amounted to anything. He was wrapped up in his cases and I…moved on. Frankly, Robert, I’m not sure he’s marriage material. We’re just friends with some work in common.” Every time she said that, she realized, it sounded less and less true, less tenable. Especially with what they were going to do tomorrow night. She shrugged.

“Mmhm, I see,” Robert said, eyeing her carefully. “I suspect you’re telling yourself a bit of a story there, Molly. I’ve heard he’s considered quite a catch.”

“Maybe he is,” she rejoined, firmly, “but I’ve given up fishing.”

“You know about him and Sarah, of course? Their history?”

She nodded. “I just found out recently. That must have been very upsetting for everyone involved.”

“Yeah,” Robert mused, with a tilt of his head. “It was. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, since the accident. I still feel bad about it,” he confessed. “Maybe if they hadn’t been so young. I don’t know,” he shrugged, rubbed his face, and sighed. “Rotten situation. It was my fault they went as far as they did. I should have been paying more attention. I tend to drift sometimes, lost in my books and my thoughts. Wool gathering,” he punned. “But I had to look out for my baby girl, didn’t I? Make sure she got properly settled.”

He glanced at her as if he needed her forgiveness, her understanding for what he’d done. Why, he wasn’t sure but he sensed an innate kindness in her that might be able to absolve almost anything. There was something special about her, he realized. Something rare. His wife would call her an old soul. “Of course everything’s changed now,” he added. “Who knows what might eventually happen between them?”

She nodded, but an uncomfortable shiver, a creeping pressure rolled up her spine. “I’m sure you did the best you could at the time,” she offered, not wanting to think about what he was insinuating. “No one can ask for more. We can’t know the future, can we? And you two get along now, don’t you? He told me how much he admires you.”

“He said that?” Robert asked, surprised. “That’s good to know. He’s a difficult read sometimes with his stiff, unaffected demeanor and all that emotional repression. I did that to him. I changed him. He was such a nice boy, before. Fresh, passionate, eager, incredibly smart. I want him to know that I think well of him, before I…leave.”

“He’s still all those things, you know. It wasn’t all for the worse,” she replied. “Maybe he wouldn’t have become the great man he is now but for that experience. Look at how many people he’s helped. Hundreds, if not thousands. He’s saved I don’t know how many lives. You helped with that, in a way.” 

“I think you ascribe to me more than I deserve,” Robert said, softly.

“Well, we’re all interconnected, aren’t we?” she noted. “Each interaction, each experience is another step in our journey to wherever we’re going in this crazy life. Like a thread in a tapestry or in Sarah’s lace, all weaving around, influencing and intertwining with the others to make something amazing, for good or for bad. I like to think we’re all on a path to goodness, however it manifests. Yes, he pushed his feelings away, but you’re not responsible for that. There was all that business with his sister. You know she’s alive, right?”

Robert paled and looked shaken. “What? No,” he said. “She died, many years ago, in a fire. Margaret — Mrs. Holmes — told us she died.”

“No,” she responded, shaking her head. “That was a falsehood. Sherlock just found out, like three months ago. Mycroft thought it would be kinder if everyone believed she had died instead of finding out what she’d become. He started the story that she died in a fire. She’s criminally insane and has been locked up in a special prison since she was five. But she got out recently and wreaked all kinds of havoc in Sherlock’s life before they were able to get her back under control. There were murders; she killed six people. I’m sorry to be the one telling you this,” she said, softly. “I thought he would have told you.”

“He hasn’t said a word about it,” he breathed, still trying to absorb this information. “She was always a bit…strange, seemed beyond her years for one so young, but I never thought, never conceived of anything like this. Do Margaret and Sig know?”

“Yes, I’m sure Sherlock and Mycroft told them and I’m positive he didn’t want to upset you all,” she said. “You’ve got your own things to deal with and you know how he discounts and ignores his own issues so he doesn’t have to deal with them. That’s the emotional repression you mentioned and she’s why he originally started doing it. I think what happened between Sarah and him just made him double down. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she winced. “But I thought you knew. I’m sorry, Robert.”

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, looking distressed. “Poor boy! Is there anything I can do to help him, do you suppose?” he asked. “I’d move heaven and earth to bolster him up. He’s been so kind and supportive to us these last few months and to think he was doing all of it with _this_ hanging over him. How he must be struggling! I can’t begin to imagine what it’s been like for him.”

“You’re so kind,” she said, softly. Now that she was explaining the situation to another person she was struck by the depths of the tragedy that had befallen him, by the horror of what he must be going through. And she had added to his problems — not helped him — she realized. She needed to rectify that. “You should tell him how you feel,” she urged. “Invite him in here for a drink, have a chat, clear it up. It’s important you say everything you want to, before…” she trailed off. She looked at him carefully. She noted his dry, sallow skin, the faint palsy in his hands, his thinness and general frailty. “Are you taking electrolytes?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied with a shrug. “Just water and my tea. A small whiskey occasionally. And I’m still eating pretty well. I’m going to speak with him this evening,” he declared, firmly. “He oughtn’t have to deal with all of that alone.”

“That would be lovely and helpful, I’m sure,” she said. “And I’m going to talk to Cook about getting you some dietary assistance. I think that’ll help you feel better; you seem a little dehydrated. And maybe some vitamins, too.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, touched by her concern.

“I suppose I should be getting on,” she said, reluctant to leave. “I don’t want to tire you out. It’s been lovely talking with you but Sarah is waiting on me. She’s going to teach me how to make lace.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very good at it,” he replied, taking back the basket of roving. “Thank you for coming to see me. I enjoyed speaking with you very much, Molly Hooper.”

She stood up and looked at him fondly before spontaneously leaning forward to give him a gentle kiss on his cheek. “See you at dinner,” she said, bending over to give Barley a goodbye pat.

“Get along with you,” he said good-naturedly, with a wave of his hand.

She slipped out of his study and went immediately to the kitchen. Cook was putting the finishing touches on the icing for her Victoria sponge. Molly spoke to her about her recommendations for Robert’s diet and Cook promised to get the items and make the adjustments. She seemed very concerned about the master’s well being and said she would follow Molly’s advice assiduously.

Relieved, Molly made her way to the library. Sherlock and Scott were there, sitting at one of the long tables, their heads together over a pad of paper, giggling. They were playing a little game. Sherlock was drawing chemical symbols on the page, teaching him about molecular, structural, and displayed formulae and Scott was guessing which compounds they were and then adding his own. From her quick glance at the paper she saw there were other little figures and games they had drawn as well. Hangman seemed to be a popular choice.

Sarah was seated on the long red velvet sofa, her wheelchair to the side, working on her lace. She looked up at Molly and smiled. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed. “Are you ready for lace?” Molly nodded. “I’ve set everything out for you,” Sarah continued. “Pillow, pillow stand, pins, thread, bobbins, divider pins, stuff for the pattern — which you’re going to make — and a few starter books to get you going.”

“Wait,” Molly said. “I found this in the village this morning and I wanted you to have it. You’ve been so kind and welcoming to me.” She passed over the silver bud vase. “There were two so I gave one to your mother. She told me the one you had broke last week so I guess this is oddly fortuitous.”

“Oh! So sweet of you!” Sarah said, admiring it. “Thank you. It’s perfect! And I love that mummy and I get to have the same one. It will remind us of each other when we see it.” She gave Molly a quick hug. “Now, let’s get lacing.” She explained how to draft the pattern and prick the holes for the pins, affix it to the pillow, wind the bobbins and lay them on, and how to make the stitches. “The first pattern is always ugly and everyone hates doing it,” she advised, “but don’t get upset. It’s only a narrow strip and you go back and forth just so you can learn how to twist the bobbins, let out the thread, and get a feel for the way they move and the way the lace is constructed. It will look horrible. Don’t worry about it. Your next pattern will be more interesting and you’ll probably get to that in a few hours. That one will be a scalloped edging so you can learn about footsides and fans.”

“My bobbins are different than yours,” Molly noted. 

“Yes, yours are called flat squares. They’re for lace other than Honiton. Everyone is using them now — they’re really nice, don’t need spangling, and don’t roll around on the pillow as much as continental bobbins. You’ll be making Torchon lace which is a simple geometric style. Everyone starts with Torchon and then you can branch out to more complex lace like Bedsfordshire or Cluny, or lots of people also like Russian tape lace or Idrija. Milanese is very beautiful, too. There’s a whole world of lace for you to discover! The colorful threads, infinite patterns, hundreds of books, not to mention all the collectibles! I’m so excited for you!” she gushed. “That is, if you like doing it,” she added, as an afterthought. “You may hate it. Mummy does,” she chuckled.

Molly sat down and began. It was an absorbing pastime learning to set up her pillow, read the pattern, manipulate the bobbins, and she quickly got the hang of it, moving on to the second pattern more rapidly than a pleased Sarah had expected. They chatted easily about all sorts of things whilst they laced, the bobbins making a pleasant, relaxing click-clack sound as they worked and Molly, forgetting Sherlock could overhear, found she was talking about Greg, her work in town, and her hopes for their future. Sherlock and Scott got up eventually and went outside to kick a soccer ball around the lawn, leaving them alone.

The hours flew by and soon it was time to change for dinner. After another delicious meal, Molly returned to her lace for a number of hours before deciding it was time for bed. Sarah had retired early, complaining of the pain in her back. 

The intense concentration required for learning something completely alien was more tiring than Molly had realized as she got up and stretched, and her eyes were feeling strained from focusing on the tiny threads and the movement of the bobbins across the pattern. She left the library, had a quick cup of light tea and a chocolate biscuit in the breakfast room and then started down the quiet, semi-dark hallway which passed Robert’s study on her way to the turret. She stopped, noticing Sherlock standing outside the door, slumped against the wall. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes closed, his head down. 

“Sherlock?” she ventured as she silently came up to him. “Are you okay?”

He looked up, startled. “Fine,” he blurted out. “Absolutely fine.” But in stark contrast to his words his eyes were glistening and rimmed with red. He looked away, shifting uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed at having been caught out in what he would normally scornfully dismiss as a “sentimental condition.”

She knew instantly what had happened in Robert’s study and her heart melted, seeing him this way. Coming closer, she put a hand on his arm and was surprised to find his body trembling. He swallowed, cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and stared blankly at the wall over her shoulder, attempting to get a hold of himself. 

“Did you talk about her?” she asked, her voice low. “About Eurus?”

He nodded, looked at his shoes, and tried to speak. Failing that, he shook his head and gave a unsteady laugh. “It’s a good thing I don’t believe in conspiracy theories,” he finally managed. “Or I’d start thinking my entire childhood hadn’t existed at all.”

“I’m so sorry,” she offered. “I told Robert, accidentally, that she’s alive. I thought he knew. It’s my fault, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have broken your confidence if I had thought…” she stopped, feeling awkward and guilty. “He was concerned about you,” she added. “He likes you very much. More than you realize, I think.”

“It’s all right,” he shrugged. “You couldn’t have known. It was wrong of me not to tell him myself but I thought it would be a burden to him and everyone in the house so I didn’t mention it. They’ve had enough shocks to deal with and anyway, I’m not so great at sharing, at opening up, am I?” He laughed dully, without a shred of humour, trying to gloss it over. “Back then they were so careful not to say anything, to never mention her again. It had all been planned, worked out between my parents and them.”

She pulled him farther along down the hall so Robert couldn’t overhear. “I’m sure they thought it was for the best,” she tried. “They were trying to protect you.”

“I know,” he agreed. “He was very good tonight. We talked for hours. We also spoke about—“ his voice cracked and he hung his head as he trailed off. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.” 

“It’s okay. We’re friends aren’t we? Friends share their troubles with each other,” she told him, gently. 

He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “He apologized,” he said in wonder. “For pulling us apart. Sarah and I. He said he needed my forgiveness. Mine! Why would he need that? My forgiveness isn’t worth anything.”

“You care for him very much, don’t you?” she stated, moving a little closer to him. She put her hand on his arm again, trying to ground him a little. “He’s like a father to you, isn’t he?”

He nodded and then his face twisted up, unable to hold it back any longer. He choked back a groan and she immediately wrapped her arms around him, holding him firmly, rubbing his back and making soothing, murmuring sounds. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and slid his arms around her waist, returning her embrace, his arms around her so tight she could barely breathe. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she whispered. “Everyone here wants to help you, to support you. You’ll let us, won’t you?”

“I’ll try,” he murmured. “I’m not…very good at this.” He hung onto her for long minutes, drawing strength from her calming presence before letting out a slow, shaky sigh. She could feel his body begin to relax.

“I know. You just need a little practice,” she said, slowly extricating herself from his arms and taking his hand. She gave him a little tug, starting them towards their bedrooms. “This was a good beginning. I know it hurts but I’m so proud of you, Sherlock. The path to healing goes through some thorny regions, doesn’t it?” she smiled, as they began to climb the stairs.

He nodded. “It’s easier to stuff it down.”

“Only in the short term. Long term it’s not such a great idea, as I think you’re finding out,” she said, leading him up the winding staircase. “Let’s get you to bed now. You need to sleep. Things will be better tomorrow, Sherlock. We’re going to Gidleigh Park, remember?” She gave his cheek a caress and kissed him briefly, gently, on the corner of his mouth before leaving him at his bedroom door.

She had a hard time settling down, the eyestrain giving her a headache and her concern over his well-being gnawing at her insides. She’d never seen him like that before, so open and vulnerable, but she was glad he still had enough confidence in her to allow her to see him in a condition that was to him, anathema. He had every reason not to trust her at all. She got up, gulped down some paracetamol and went back to bed. After finally managing to fall asleep she had a dreadful dream which pushed and pulled at her in the darkness, instilling within her a growing sense of unease.

Upon a deep, solid black field the end of a thin white thread appeared on the left, wiggling and winding itself towards the center. Eventually another appeared on the right side, twisting and turning, getting longer and longer as it struggled and strained to reach the first thread. Then another appeared from the top, working its way down, and then more and more crawled into view. Like a mass of writhing worms they snaked and wriggled their way across her vision, beginning to meet up, twisting around each other, coagulating together, the snarl growing larger and larger, creating a horrifying clot of squirming threads which threatened to overtake her.

***


	19. Into the Moor

**Into the Moor**

_Was it wonderful for you?  
Was it holy as it was for me?  
Did you feel the hand of destiny  
That was guiding us together?  
You were young enough to dream  
I was old enough to learn something new  
I'm so glad I got to dance with you  
For a moment of forever  
Sometimes when you're cryin', you're happy  
Sometimes you're just cryin'  
I know. I know.  
Come whatever happens now  
Ain't it nice to know that dreams still come true  
I'm so glad that I was close to you  
For a moment of forever._

  
“MOLLY!” Sherlock bellowed as he chucked their overnight bags into the boot of the Morgan. “Hurry up! It’s past noon already!”  


“Sherlock, do stop shouting,” she replied, as she struggled out the door trying to juggle two rain jackets, two pairs of wellies, a heavy bag full of books and maps, her purse, and a small cooler with snacks in it which Cook insisted she take with even though Molly had explained there was probably plenty of food where they were headed. She blinked and squinted in the warm, bright sunshine, sneezed, walked over to him and tiredly shoved the lot of it onto his chest. He caught it up with his arms. “What’s the hurry?” she asked.  


He pointed with his chin to the two dozen cars surrounding them on the gravel car park, noisy Americans with their awful, pristine designer sneakers and their awful, baggy cargo shorts milling about and making loud, inane comments, taking pictures of everything. “ _Tourists_ ,” he complained. “They’re all over the place. It’s like an infestation. Look, that one’s taking a stupid picture of a magpie.” He snorted.

“Tourists aren’t contagious,” she sighed, unwinding her purse from the pile of stuff and getting into the car. She dug through her bag, found her dark glasses, put them on, and breathed a sigh of relief whilst he sorted everything into the boot. “Besides, we’re going to be tourists today. What makes us any less loathsome than them?”

He got in, started the engine and headed down the drive. “What’s wrong with you this morning?” he asked. “You’re a bit snarly. Barely spoke two words at breakfast and only ate a few bites.”

“Snarly is the word,” she agreed. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep very well,” she explained. “Terrible dreams about being menaced by a clotting mass of writhing thread all night. Too much lacemaking, I think. Give me a bit of time to wake up and I’ll be fine. You seem perkier today. Are you feeling more settled?”

“Yep,” he replied, popping the consonant. “Although I am a bit tired, too. Kind of looking forward to getting away from this house for a quick getaway with you. It’s nice and all, but it seems a little claustrophobic in an odd way compared to London.” He smiled warmly at her. “Thank you for being so sweet to me last night. It was very kind and I needed some understanding.”

She smiled and rubbed his bicep. “Thanks for letting me help you,” she said softly. “I know how hard opening up like that that was for you. I don’t think I’ve really understood what you’ve been going through recently,” she mused. “It must be very difficult; huge portions of your world have been upended,” she finished, thoughtfully.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Eventually. But I appreciate your support, Molly.” Reaching the end of the drive, he made a right hand turn towards Okehampton. “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” she noted. “I thought we were going into the moor.”

“The roads don’t go through,” he responded. “We have to go around the top and get in through Chagford on the other side. I thought we could stop for lunch then. There’s a nice pub, and maybe we could look around a bit after that.”

“Oh, okay, good. That sounds nice. Hey, weren’t you in Dartmoor a few years ago on a case? You know, the dog one?”

“The dog one?” he replied, laughing. “You mean the one John takes all the credit for? Yes, I was, but that was farther down south, near Buckfastleigh. I’m less familiar with that part of the moor.” 

He stopped to fill up at the petrol station in the village and she went in to use the loo and buy a large bottle of water. Coming out, she chugged about half of it before getting back in the car.

“I’m not stopping again until we hit Chagford,” he informed her as they left the village behind, backtracking a bit to get on the Okehampton bypass.

“That’s fine,” she said, gazing out the window at the gently rolling farmland as they sped along. “Cows.”

“Cows,” he repeated, nodding his head. 

A few minutes later she pointed. “Horsie! Aw, look, Sherlock, she has a foal. How sweet.”

“Are you going to announce every animal we see along the way?”

“Yes. There’s a law. When you’re out in the country and see an animal, you have to say it,” she giggled.

“That’s a law?” He seemed doubtful.

“Yes, absolutely. It’s the, uh, Animal Recognition and Awareness Act of…1733. I’m surprised you don’t know that,” she added, with an air of superiority.

“You’re pulling my leg,” he chuckled. “You just made that up.” He paused for a moment, thinking, his brow creasing, wondering if she could possibly be serious. “Didn’t you?”

She smiled and didn’t answer. “I need a loo.”

Sighing, he pulled into the next petrol station at Whitehouse Services and waited for her. “If we have to hit every loo between here and Gidleigh Park we’re not going to get there until midnight,” he grumbled once she resettled in the car and they got back on the motorway.

“Please don’t drive so fast, Sherlock. It’s making me nauseous.”

He backed off the accelerator.

“Sheeps,” she said. She grew quiet then and a few minutes later when she missed a raft of ducks dabbling and diving in a large pond across the road he glanced over at her. She was sound asleep. He smiled, pleased that she trusted him enough to actually fall asleep whilst he was driving.

Things were progressing between them, he thought, albeit slowly. He’d been happily shocked that she’d actually agreed to this trip even though there was still a possibility she might change her mind about the lovemaking. But that would be okay, too, he reasoned. His main goal was to spend as much time alone with her as he could, to show her, to prove he’d changed, that he could be soft, helpful and supportive, and that he would always love her, no matter how much her heart wandered. It was his turn to be fixed and steady, he reckoned, to be the rock whilst she crashed against him like an ocean wave, approaching and retreating in equal measure. 

_How do you know he isn’t what she really wants?_ his brain inquired.

That’s not possible, he thought. It just can’t be. Even a cursory examination of their relationship indicated they weren’t suited. Greg was a decent person, a good man, but that’s not nearly adequate enough for her. She needed someone who would give her the world on a silver platter. Someone who would treat her like the absolute queen she is.

_And you think you’re that person._

I’m going to be, he told himself. If I can be solid and unwavering, that is, to be what she wants and needs. He was convinced she was skittering around, unsure of her direction, of what she really wanted precisely because Greg wasn’t the one and he himself had scared her, driven her off because of his ongoing reticence as well as his untrustworthy behaviors. 

At least she was still sexually attracted to him, he thought. He could read it in the hitch of her breath when he approached her, in the dilation of her pupils, in the rapid beating of her pulse at the base of her throat, but that wasn’t enough. Sure, he could get her to sleep with him, that part was easy because of her physical attraction to him but it was only a beginning, a first step on the road to something larger, better, more fulfilling; his ultimate goal was the winning of her heart.

I can do this, he told himself, firmly, even though a part of him felt stretched to a breaking point. It was all a bit much. But, at least the tide hadn’t gone out permanently, he mused, glancing at her again. She looked so cute asleep. 

She woke up, stretched, and smiled at him. “Mmm,” she purred. “That was nice. I feel much better! Where are we?”

“We’re about ten minutes from Chagford,” he explained, chuckling. “You slept for like, four minutes.”

“Seemed longer,” she said, shrugging. “Geese.”

They had turned off the motorway and had officially entered Dartmoor, driving on narrow, asphalt lanes that twisted through a dark, shadowy forest of elm, oak and plane trees which crowded and overhung the road. The occasional clearing in the trees revealed brief vistas into steep, granite-strewn cuts, rushing rivers, a few green fields, and rising in the background, the high, stony moor covered in great swathes of purple moor grass. The air smelled fresh and clean, of misty pine trees and deep, mossy undergrowth. 

“Here we are,” he said, coming to a stop in front of The Three Crowns in the tiny village of Chagford. They went in, found a table, and ordered. He got fish and chips, she chose fish pie. The food was delicious, very fresh and well prepared. For pudding they shared a large wedge of orange and lemon tart slathered with an almost obscene amount of the local clotted cream.

Afterwards, they strolled up and down the short High Street of the ancient market town, looking in shop windows and enjoying the crisp, refreshing air as they digested their meal. Back in the car he pulled out his phone and opened Google, looking for something interesting to see nearby.

“Ah,” he said. “I got it. This one is perfect for you, Molly. A Neolithic burial chamber called Spinster’s Rock.” He winked and laughed.

She wanted to smack him. “I’ll have you know,” she informed him, “there have been many spinsters over the centuries who were great women and did a powerful amount of good in this world. Jane Austin, Florence Nightingale, Queen Elizabeth—“

“Hang on, that last one, she has kids,” he protested. “I’m pretty sure she’s got children, doesn’t she? Aren’t they always getting into some kind of scandalous trouble?”

“The first one,” Molly sighed. “Queen Elizabeth the first. And it’s not necessary to be married to bear children, in case you didn’t know. Also Susan B. Anthony and Louisa May Alcott.”

“Miss Havisham,” he chortled.

“You brat,” she giggled. “I can’t believe you’ve read _Great Expectations_ and if I ever go up in a ball of flames like that I’m taking you with me. And she wasn’t a real person so she doesn’t count. Spinster,” she mused. “What a horrible word. Why is it that spinster has such terrible connotations but bachelor doesn’t?”

“You know why,” he replied. “It’s misogyny, plain and simple. Want to go see this thing?” She nodded.

He put the car in gear and they set off. The road got narrower and steeper as they climbed farther up into the moor and once they had to reverse into a small lay-by when they met another car coming in the opposite direction. Finally Molly spotted a little signpost indicating the tomb was nearby. He pulled into the tiny car park and they got out, changed into their wellies, crossed the road, and went through a wooden gate which was surrounded by a tangle of blooming purple bilberry, privet, goat willow, and delicate pink dog roses.

Past the gate the area opened up into a small meadow ringed with trees; off-center in the greening field stood the magnificent dolmens, three uprights — each well over two meters high — with one enormous, domed slab crowning them. A small flock of sheep grazed nearby on the new grass.

“Beautiful!” she breathed, as they approached. She put her hand on the cool, rough, lichen-covered surface of the stones, trying to touch the ages past.

“It’s a pile of rocks,” he said, looking around the ground. “Mind where you walk; the sheep have been here.”

“But what a pile of rocks!” she exclaimed. “You realize this was probably made more than 5,000 years ago, don’t you? It’s phenomenal. People have been buried here since before the pyramids in Egypt were constructed. And once this whole thing was covered with earth in a big mound. Just think, there were prehistoric people living and farming by the moor all those millennia ago who had families and babies, and probably hopes and dreams just like us. And we can relate to them just by being here, by seeing and touching this amazing thing they left behind.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted, tilting his head and taking a fresh view of the stones.

“I wonder how they built it,” she mused. “You can’t just pick up stones of this size and plop them on top of each other without some serious mechanical assistance. I mean, I can understand the uprights, you could do that with ropes, but the crown must have been nearly impossible. They must have been pretty well advanced to figure it out.”

She pulled out her phone and made him stand in front of it whilst she took his picture, and then he returned the favour. They wasted some time chasing the sheep around, but the animals were skittish and sprang away as soon as they got near.

Heading back to the car they rinsed their wellies clean by paddling around in a thin, cold rivulet flowing down the ditch on one the side of the road, got in the Morgan, and headed off towards Gidleigh Park. Molly was getting excited to see it and her first view of the luxury hotel did not disappoint.

As they crossed the curved bridge which spanned the rocky, roaring, river Teign the building came into view on their right — a sprawling half timber manor with four gables across the front and a smaller one in the middle over the entrance, situated on a small rise halfway up the side of the valley. There was a two story addition off to the right with four balconied rooms and what looked like another addition along the back, small dormer windows peeking out. A steep, green lawn in front fell down towards the river, three flights of granite steps cutting through the grass. He parked in front of the entrance and immediately several staff came out, removed their belongings from the boot and carried them into the hotel.

She tucked her arm through his as they went in and he stopped at the desk to check in. She took this opportunity to look around the ground floor. The hallway was wide and paneled in honey-coloured coffered wood throughout, lending a warm, rich, cozy feeling to the interiors. She peeked into the dining room which had a number of round tables already dressed for dinner — crisp white linens, heavy flatware, china chargers rimmed with gold, small bouquets of wildflowers, and short, squat candles in little glass bowls. It looked pleasant and intimate. The next room down was the spacious lounge with overstuffed sofas and chairs clustered together in little conversational groupings, with a fireplace, a piano, and a magnificent view of the heavily wooded valley out of the ten-meter-wide bay window.

“Ready to go up?” Sherlock’s voice cut into her wanderings. She nodded and took his hand as they climbed the staircase to the first floor. A staff person standing in the hallway smiled at them as they passed by. Sherlock unlocked the door and threw it open, letting her go in first.

“What is that woman doing in the hallway?” Molly whispered.

“She’s there in case you need anything,” he replied. “Suppose you should wake up at 3 a.m. and desperately need a chicken salad sandwich or something? She’ll get it for you. The staff here are very…attentive.” He stood in the open door for a moment, trying to regain his bearings as a wave of exhaustion swept over him.

“Look at this lovely room!” she gushed, turning around to take it all in. The room was done in pale greens and soft, earthy browns, echoing the landscape, and although it looked much like any other country hotel, there was something extra luxurious about it. It reeked of understated posh, she decided. “Oh, look, our bags are already here. My god, you could fit five people in a bed that size,” she remarked, pointing. “It’s huge!” She unzipped her bag, took out her dress, shook it out, and hung it up.

“Hopefully, we won’t have to,” he replied, going over to open the French doors to the balcony. “I’m not sharing you with anyone tonight. Are you hungry? We’ve got about four hours until dinner. Want…anything?” He was so tired he was starting to feel dizzy. It was all too much, he thought, and it was catching up with him, even though — or maybe because — he was hours away from his heart’s desire. Things were about to change between them in some inevitable fashion and he was suddenly unsure of his ability to manage its direction. He could feel his normally reliable control slipping, pouring through his fingers like water. 

_Just a little bit longer_ , his brain assured him, in Moriarty’s voice. _And then you and I will meet again._

“No, thanks,” she replied. “I’m still full of clotted cream.” She went up three little steps into the raised bathroom area to use the loo. 

He shook his head to dispel the unwanted, intrusive voice, tightened his emotions, and took one yearning look at the soft, welcoming bed. He fell forward, face planting onto it crossways, his arms at his sides, his feet hanging over the edge, and fell asleep within seconds.

“Hey, Sherlock, do you want to walk arou—“ she stopped short as she came back down into the room and found him asleep. A wave of fondness for him swept over her as she gazed at him. Of course he was tired. This was the first time in months he’d been able to get away from Holsworthy and he must be exhausted, she realized, carrying everyone’s burdens in addition to his own, without a break of any kind. He was being incredibly selfless and it must be hard, she thought. That type of behavior didn’t come naturally to him; he was making a lot of effort and deserved recognition for that fact. In London at least he had his private sanctuary in Baker Street whilst he worked on cases but here he’d had to be constantly available. Her heart went out to him.

She pulled off his shoes, shook out the blanket, unearthed two pillows from under the covers, and crawled onto the bed beside him. He must have sensed her presence because he mumbled, “Wanna do somethin’? Walk?”

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“No, Sherlock,” she replied gently. “You’re going to rest. Lift up your head.” He complied and she slipped a pillow under him, laid down, arranged the blanket around them both, and caressed his cheek. “I just want to lay here next to you,” she murmured, running her fingers through the curls at his temple. He looked so open, so unconcealed.

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“‘S’nice,” he managed, with a grateful sigh. 

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“Oh, Sherlock, you really are a lovely man, aren’t you?” she said.

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“No. Not,” he managed groggily, stubborn to the last. “Didn’t…come here to be…insulted.” He turned over on his side to face her, scooched closer, put his arm around her waist, tucked his face into the crook of her neck, and submerged back into blessed sleep once more.

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She laughed lightly, settled onto her own pillow, closed her eyes, and soon she was fast asleep, too.

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When he awoke a few hours later — now warm and content — he noticed she had changed positions, flipped onto her side so they were spooning, her back against his chest, his arm around her. She was still asleep and his nose was nestled behind her ear, breathing in the scent of her, as sweet, heady, and vast as the sea. 

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He began to nuzzle her neck, feeling her pulse throbbing under his lips, and soon discovered a spot just behind her ear that made her shiver against him in her sleep. He experimentally applied a little more pressure and a bit of tongue and was rewarded with a small, satisfied moan as she began to wake up.

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She flipped over to face him, winding her arm around his neck and lifting her lips to his in a long, slow, heavenly kiss. “Sherlock?” she purred.

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“Hm?” he replied.

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“Want to go for a walk?”

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“I hope that’s a euphemism,” he mumbled, his lips now working on her cheekbone and the little crease along the outside of her eye, his hand trailing lightly over her hip.

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She laughed. “No, I want to see the grounds. You can’t have brought me all this way and spent all this money just to lie around in bed all day.”

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“Why can’t I have done? Sounds perfectly logical to me,” he countered, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “Especially when the bed’s as enticing and interesting as this one.”

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“I want to explore,” she insisted.

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“I am exploring,” he replied, kissing his way down her neck and across her collarbones to stop in the alluring hollow at the base of her throat. “Hang on,” he continued, paying it a great deal of attention. “I’ve found something new. The most beautiful piece of real estate in the country. I’m going to build a house right here and live in it forever.”

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She giggled and pushed on his shoulder. “I’m serious, Sherlock. I’m going to look around. You can either come with me or stay here and pay your attentions to the pillow.”

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Grumbling, he sat up and gave her the most woeful-eyed, puppy dog look he could muster before sliding off the bed and putting on his wellies as she donned hers. Holding hands they went outside, breathing in the cool, refreshing air. They headed off, passing the kitchen gardens and finding a worker who was picking baby lettuces for their dinner, so they stopped and helped for a while, before wandering off towards the stables and then down across the lawn to the croquet pitch. They had a quick game with rules he made up on the spot to assure his win and then they walked along the river to the bridge where they played Pooh-sticks until it was time to dress for dinner.

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She glanced up at him and took his hand as they climbed up the hill towards their room. He looked over and smiled warmly at her. He was incredibly easy to travel with, she realized. Calm, perfectly tranquil with long stretches of silence, not pressuring her to do or be anything or anyone in particular. She could be herself with him — she wasn’t too mousy, too morbid or too independent for him — and she found herself relaxing for the first time as she reconsidered her reticence to getting involved.

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Back in their room, she changed into the violet rough silk gown Sarah had lent her whilst he changed into a suit and tie. His eyes lit up as he watched her come down the three stairs from the bathroom. She’d piled her hair up on top of her head in a loose bun, with a few tendrils escaping to curl around her bare shoulders.

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“Oh, Molly, you look lovely,” he breathed. 

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“And you look very handsome, Sherlock,” she returned, coming up to him and straightening his tie a little. He tucked a lavender rose behind her ear. “Where’d you get that?” she asked.

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“From the mysterious woman in the hallway,” he replied, leaning down to press a kiss against her lips. He caught her up in his arms and they silently danced to the music existing between them for a few minutes. “I told you she’ll get you anything,” he continued, whispering in her ear. “And maybe if I’m very good, later tonight she’ll bring me your love.”

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Molly blushed and preened, a bit overwhelmed as they went downstairs to dinner. She’d never felt so adored in all her life.

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***

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the url to a page about Spinsters rock:
> 
> https://escapetobritain.com/spinsters-rock-dartmoor/


	20. Burning

**Burning**

_I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain in the skies  
Aching with the feeling of the freedom of an angel when she flies  
Turning on the world, the way she smiled upon my soul as I lay dying  
Healing as the colors in the sunshine and the shadows of her eyes  
Loving her was easier than anything I'll ever do again_

After a stunning, delectable, amazing dinner which was everything one could hope for and feeling pleasantly sated but not overly full, Molly and Sherlock took a wander through the property in the deepening twilight, along the kitchen gardens towards the stables to bid goodnight to the horses. After giving them a few carrots and nose pets she tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow as they continued on, strolling alongside the river using the footpath. They stopped on the rustic wooden bridge that spanned the river to watch the clear, glinting water tumbling over rocks below their feet. Small yellow spotlights along the banks softly illuminated the area and a gentle breeze rustled through the trees.

“This is magical,” she breathed, looking up to see the first few pale stars twinkling into view in the indigo sky. 

“Yes, it is,” he replied, not taking his eyes from her enraptured face. “It’s lovely.” Sliding his hand onto her hip, he lightly pushed on it to turn her towards him. She put a hand on his shoulder as he lowered his head to capture her lips with his own. She responded eagerly, slipping her arms around his neck as their kiss warmed. They stood there for long moments, tasting each other, gently, carefully. After a time he broke away and pulled her close in an embrace. “I wish we could live here,” he rumbled in her ear. “I want to stay in your arms forever.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she murmured, running her hand through his hair. She reached up and kissed him, pressing herself along his firm body, a thrill rolling through her as she sensed his awakening desire. 

He pulled her even closer, his tongue in her mouth now, returning her kiss with increasing urgency. He could feel her trembling in his arms and the knowledge of the effect he was having on her made him more hungry for her, more impatient. Bending her backwards his hands began to wander down the curve of her back to her arse. He pushed his hips against her, letting her feel his growing need, slotting one thigh between hers. Her knee lifted slightly and she pressed her thigh alongside his, pushing back at him, moaning. Her head fell back as he began to explore her neck and shoulders with his lips before dipping lower to kiss her breasts over her gown. He started pulling her bodice down, wanting her so badly he could hardly breathe.

“Wait, wait, Sherlock!” she said, breathlessly, shoving at his shoulder as she righted herself. Reluctantly, she pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let’s, erm, go up and have a brandy,” she suggested. “Otherwise I’m going to let you have me right here on this bridge and I’m not quite ready for that. I need some…fortification.” He grumbled but let her lead him by the hand up the steps cut into the hillside to the large stone patio overlooking the valley.

As they took seats side by side on a glider, a server appeared immediately. “Two brandies. Remy Martin, VSOP, please,” Sherlock said. The man nodded, came back with their nightcaps and turned off the outside lights as he went back inside, plunging the patio into a delicious, romantic darkness. The stars brightened in the evening sky and they could hear the refreshing roar of the river as it rushed along the bottom of the valley. The waning moon began to rise in its starry bed, cradled by dusky purple clouds. Someone was playing the piano in the lounge, a dreamy tune, the soft notes drifting outside on the cooling night air. 

She laughed. “Not exactly subtle,” she commented, clinking her glass against his. 

He reached over and took her hand, raising it to his lips, nuzzling it for a moment. “Mmhm,” he agreed. “It might be a little twee. They’re used to having lovers stay here so they tend to go to extremes.” He dropped her hand and extended his arm, passing it in a sweep over the lush valley laid out before them. “Although it is beautiful. But not as beautiful as you, Molly.”

She blushed. “Sherlock, when did you start getting so…tender? This isn’t like you, to pay attention to these things, much less to say them out loud,” she commented, suddenly realizing she still held any number of fixed opinions about him that might be in need of revision.

He looked at her, his eyes glittering in the starlight, and shrugged. “Maybe when I noticed I was missing out,” he replied, quietly. “Everyone changes, Molly. Sometimes even for the better.” He loosened his tie and took off his suit coat, draping it around her shoulders to guard against the cool night air, and unfastened several buttons on his shirt. He looked incredibly handsome, she noticed, so relaxed and open, even boyish with his collar undone. She was tempted to run her hand over his chest, under the silk, to feel his warm flesh and beating heart against her exploring fingers.

Instead, she took a sip of her brandy and fell silent, thinking. He put an arm around her and she nestled into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her thoughts churning, feeling slightly unsettled and strangely at the same time, perfectly content. They sat there in silence together, enjoying the spring night until she shivered.

“Cold?” he asked, rubbing her arm. 

“Just a little,” she admitted. “But it’s so pleasant out here.”

“Shall we go up, then? I don’t want you getting chilled.” She nodded.

Rising, they made their way to their room. Molly pulled open the French doors onto their balcony, letting the night air flow into the room. She turned on the lamp on her side of the bed and kicked off her shoes.

He started pulling his shirt tails out of his trousers. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “Want to join me?” He winked at her cheekily.

Settling onto the bed which faced the bathroom, she smiled at him but shook her head. “You go ahead. I’ll take a bath after you’re done. Right now I want to catch up on my emails and stuff.”

“Suit yourself,” he grinned. He went up the three little stairs into the bathroom and began undressing. 

She glanced up, surprised to realize that with the open format of the accommodations, her view of the bathtub was hampered only by a sheet of frosted glass mounted perpendicular to the wall. The loo was tucked away behind the L part of the wall but the tub was in full view. She could see everything he was doing, albeit in a blurry, pixelated kind of way. She swallowed and forced herself to get back to her emails and texts. 

He seemed to be taking his sweet time, peeling off his trousers and pants very slowly, then leaning over and flicking on the shower, testing the water temperature for what felt to her like ten minutes. Finally he stepped in, his back to her, and started lathering his hair.

Her phone dropped into her lap, her messages unread, and she started gaping at him. She knew she should just put her head down and keep reading but she was inexorably drawn to the sight of his nude form. “Like a moth to a flame,” she said ruefully, shaking her head. 

“What’s that?” he shouted.

“Nothing!” she called. “Just talking to myself.” My god he was gorgeous. She’d never seen him in his altogether before. Yes, maybe the slip of a sheet had exposed part of his arse as he went from the bedroom to the loo at her flat once or twice, but not this much, not all at once. 

She was surprised at her inability to stop staring. After all, she’d seen hundreds of naked male bodies in her profession. She’d catalogued more penises during autopsies than she cared to remember. Dead ones, though. Not living bodies, not bodies pulsing with blood and breath, strong with muscles and sinew, and certainly few as magnificent as his, showering just meters away.

He was stunning — tall and slim, solidly muscled, with strong shoulders, narrow hips, and a plump, firm arse. His back was broad and smooth. She sucked in a breath, trying to get a hold of herself. He turned around to soap up his chest and her eyes wandered down his blurred body to the dark juncture at the apex of his thighs. She strained to see better, inwardly cursing the frosted glass as well as herself for being so shallow, so foolish. He propped his foot up on the edge of the tub and began slowly washing his thigh.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “What am I doing? What am I getting myself into?” With an iron effort she tore her eyes away from him and attempted to return to her reading but the words in front of her were now as blurry and unreadable as his body behind the glass. The shower was still running; he seemed to be taking forever. She glanced up; he was casually working on his other leg. How long does it take to wash your legs? she wondered. 

With a start she realized he was doing this on purpose. He was showing off — he wanted her to ogle him. “Bastard,” she growled. Trying to remain dispassionate, she started replying to a text from Tim Betton about some samples they were working on together.

Eventually the shower cut off, and when she looked up a few moments later he was standing stark naked and dripping wet on the top step, his stance wide. He ran his fingers through his hair, sluicing the water out of his curls.

“Sherlock! Towel!” she screamed, clapping her hand over her eyes but peeking, just a little, through her spread fingers. “Jesus,” she murmured. The front was even better than the back.

Chuckling, he reached over, grabbed a thick towel from the stack, wrapped it around his waist, and tucked the end in. “Given your profession, Molly,” he grinned, “I never would have thought you’d be so prudish about a naked body.”

“I’m not!” she replied, hotly. “You’re just…showboating.” 

He bowed with a flourish, came down the steps and crossed the room. “The bath is all yours, highness,” he said, throwing himself onto the bed. He leaned back against the pillows, laced his fingers together behind his head, crossed his ankles and smiled at her, entirely unashamed. Droplets of water glistened on his chest and she had to resist an impulse to bend over and lick them off.

She turned her back to him. “Unzip me, please.” 

He obliged, drawing the zipper down slowly, his gentle fingers brushing tantalizingly over her back and up across her shoulder blades. “May I help with the rest of your garments?” he asked, releasing the hooks on her strapless bra.

She got up. “I can manage,” she said airily, moving into the bathroom. Two can play this game, she thought, smiling wickedly to herself. She slithered out of her gown and bra as sexily as she could, tossing them over the small, padded vanity chair on top of his clothes and hoping he couldn’t see her burning cheeks behind the glass. She stepped out of her knickers and sat, provocatively, on one hip on the edge of the tub. Beginning to fill the bath, she added lots of the luxury salts and bubbles the hotel provided, leaning over to stir the water with a languid hand. 

She didn’t have to check; she knew he was watching, she could feel his eyes on her, drinking her in. For some reason knowing how badly he wanted her, instead of feeling embarrassed she discovered a power in her nakedness she’d never experienced before. She smiled and straightened up, pulling her shoulders back, her spine straight. Reaching up, she started slowly pinning her hair into a tight bun on top of her head, taking her time to smooth the loose tendrils up, enjoying the sensuality of this moment whilst the bath filled.

She sank into the bubbles with a sigh. The hot water felt good on her tired muscles. It had been a long day, and the night had barely begun. Thinking about things to come she identified a guilty, nervous twitch in her tummy and pushed it away. She lathered up a sponge and washed her neck, arms, shoulders, and breasts, finally draping a leg over the tub and running the soapy sponge over it before turning her attention to her lower half and the private spot between her legs. She closed her eyes, arched her back, and let out a contented moan, deliberately making it sound sexual.

“Need any help?” he eagerly offered from his vantage point on the bed. He wasn’t even pretending to do anything else, he was just watching her, boldly.

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” she replied, grinning.

“I can wash your back,” he tried again.

“No, there’s this thing,” she said, holding up a long-handled soft brush. 

“I’m not made of stone, you know,” he grumbled.

“Shut up and let me enjoy my bath,” she retorted. She soaked for good 15 minutes, splashing and playing with the bubbles, pleased to know he was getting antsy. Finally, unable to procrastinate any longer, she pulled the plug, stepped out, and went into the sheltered part of the room to dry off and don the lingerie she’d bought the day before.

Ten minutes later, he shouted. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m trying to get into these damn leather knickers,” she hollered back. “They’re kind of small. And tight.”

“Oh. Good,” he said, smiling. 

“Good for you, maybe,” she muttered, “but I’m going to rip all the skin off my legs. This is so not sexy.” She finally emerged, her upper thighs a trifle red, and crossed the room to stand, a bit anxiously, by the side of the bed. “You put on your silk pajama bottoms,” she noted, pointing.

“Yes. I also turned down the bed. Keep it up and you’ll soon be as observant as Mrs. Hudson,” he teased. “Seriously, you look lovely, Molly,” he said softly as he gazed at her, his voice deep and warm. “You always look lovely.”

She nervously ran a hand through her hair, which was down, brushed, and curling softly at the ends. She was wearing a pale pink baby doll, the fly-away front open under her breasts, revealing her stomach when she moved, with a little lace decorating the edges and a few tight straps criss-crossing her chest above the cups. The knickers were a darker shade of pink, with slashes over her hips. “It almost fits,” she said, with a small, shy laugh. There was a silence as he continued to stare at her, desire sparking in his eyes. “I, erm, don’t know what to do now,” she admitted, feeling suddenly awkward.

He patted the space next to him. “Come here,” he urged. He laid down on his back, his arms along his sides and closed his eyes, assuming the corpse pose. “You’re the examiner, remember? So examine me.”

“Oh. Okay,” she said, crawling across the enormous bed. She sat on her heels next to him. “Wow. These sheets are really soft,” she observed, running a hand over them covetously. “So…purple too. I want to nick them,” she giggled.

“Mulberry silk,” he said, laying stiffly upon the bed, barely moving a muscle. “£850.”

“Jesus!” she breathed, now almost afraid to be kneeling on them. “I still have some of my mum’s old sheets she gave me when I got my first flat,” she confessed. “They’re nearly 20 years old now,” she mused.

“I know,” he said, dryly. “You might want to think about retiring them. They’re so thin you can read a newspaper through them.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she replied. She noticed a large purple bruise on his shoulder which was shading into green, perfectly round, and traced the circumference with a curious fingertip. “Where did this come from?”

He gave her a flat stare. “From a certain reading nook door,” he answered. “Someone was being hysterical about getting out.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a bit responsible for his injury. She leaned down and kissed it. “Sorry. Does that make it better?”

“Molly, the application of your lips to my damaged cells could hardly be deemed a medical therapy,” he teased. “But I do appreciate it, nonetheless. Shall we get on with the exam?”

“Okay, right. An exam,” she said, refocusing. “Well, what we have here is a male, Caucasian, 39 years old, kind of cute.”

“Cute?” he shuddered. “Please.”

“Devastatingly handsome, then,” she laughed. “Is that better?”

“Yes, that’ll do. Continue.”

“You’re the corpse,” she informed him. “Corpses don’t talk. So, this specimen is…180 centimeters tall, maybe a little less. Let’s call it 179.”

He opened one eye and scowled at her. “You know I’m exactly 183 centimeters tall,” he huffed. “Six feet precisely.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “I’m teasing you. Close your eyes. Weight is, um, 79 kilos.”

“73!” he burst out.

“Not with how much cherry cake you’ve been eating,” she corrected, lightly patting his bare tummy. 

“I can’t help it that Cook’s cakes are so delicious,” he protested.

“You’re going to get as fat as Mycroft,” she laughed. “And he’s taller than you. Probably smarter, too.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be trying to shame me,” he grumbled, stung. Comparisons between him and his brother always irked him.

“I didn’t think that was possible,” she returned, mildly. 

“I thought we were having a sex holiday, not a ‘let’s humiliate Sherlock’ kind of thing. I had enough of that when I was a child,” he blurted out.

This information stopped her short. “Did you really?” she asked, concern evident in her voice. “For real, Sherlock? Were you bullied?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, turning onto his side and propping his head on his hand. “Yes, really,” he said, plucking at the sheet with his fingertips. “Par for the course, I suppose. I’ve always been…different, at least since Eurus…happened, all those years ago, and you know what raw meat difference is for little bullying monsters at school. They were always on me about something. How I didn’t fit in, how awkward I was, how I didn’t…understand certain things. Mycroft lording his superiority over me at home didn’t help any. I wasn’t trying to be weird. I wanted to be liked, a long time ago, before I gave it up as hopeless.”

“That’s…terrible,” she breathed.

“I hated it, hated school, but you know how it is. You buck up, swallow it down, learn to be a loner, get on with things. Sarah was my savior, my angel,” he said. “She accepted me, liked me for myself. And I grew up, learned to fight, and eventually the little shits left me alone. A couple of them found out I could crack their heads open because that’s what I did. I stopped them, even after they tried to move on to other, weaker boys. The English public school system is one unending lesson in base cruelty.”

Molly looked as if she might cry. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how awful it was for you.”

“It probably wasn’t as bad as I remember,” he shrugged, trying to minimize. “Besides, it’s over now. It was a long time ago. It’s just…your teasing reminded me.”

Spontaneously, she quickly leaned down and kissed him, warmly, passionately, wanting to give him something comforting, something to let him know he didn’t have to carry these burdens alone anymore.

Surprised by her sudden movement, he grew tight for a moment before relaxing into her and returning her kiss. She stretched out alongside him, moulding herself to his body, sliding an arm around him, nibbling on his plush lower lip. 

When they came up for air ten minutes later, she ran her hand through the damp curls at his temple and whispered, “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry you had to go through that. And I’m sorry for teasing you and making you remember.”

He nodded and kissed her again, briefly this time, before looking away uncomfortably, wishing he hadn’t said anything about it at all, even if he was touched by her empathy. “Sorry. I…overreacted just now,” he admitted, taking a deep, calming breath. “I’m a little nervous.”

“You are?” she said, in wonder. “I thought I was the only one.”

“You have no reason to be. You’re in charge, remember? We go at your speed. Molly, I haven’t done…this in a long time,” he said, with a crooked smile, dimly wondering why he found it so easy to reveal his secrets to her. “But I assume it’s like riding a bike,” he joked, to lighten the mood. 

“But with less pedaling, I hope,” she smiled.

“Right. Shall we get on with the game, then?” he asked.

She nodded and sat up whilst he flipped over and resumed his corpse position. “Where were we?” she said, trying to recall. “Oh, yes. It’s time for the first incision.” She leaned over and drew the Y across his chest with her finger, but trailed off partway down his abdomen, just after she passed the small, round, blue scar from his bullet wound. She watched her own hand start trembling. Looking at his pale, motionless body stretched out flat beside her, something dark and terrifying boiled up inside. “Oh, god!” she cried. “No, no!”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking; she was crying. Sitting up, he moved closer to her. “Molly, what’s wrong?” She shook her head, unable to speak. Sobs wracked her small body. “Molly!” he repeated, growing worried. “Is this about Greg?” he asked, prying her hands away from her face.

“N…no. Yes. Partly. I don’t know,” she managed to squeak out, the tears still streaming. 

“Well, that’s certainly an answer,” he said. “Kind of a confusing one, but it’s a start. What’s going on? Can you tell me?”

She raised her eyes to meet his and promptly burst into fresh, gulping tears. “I didn’t know,” she wailed, flapping her hands in distress. “I didn’t know that was in there.”

“Okay,” he said soothingly, realizing she needed to get her emotions out before she could talk about whatever this was, whatever had just happened. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned forward and gently put his arms around her. She grabbed his shoulders and continued to cry, holding him so tight her fingers made white marks on his flesh. After a few minutes her sobs grew fainter, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s better,” he said, pushing her hair away from her face. “Let me get you a wet flannel.”

She sniffed, nodded, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Are there any tissues?” she asked, her voice quavering.

He nodded, scrambled off the bed, fetched some first aid, and returned to her side. He wiped her face with the cool, wet flannel, and gazed at her with concern as she blew her nose. “Whatever’s going on, that was pretty powerful, huh?” he remarked. “Such a strong reaction.”

She sniffled and heaved a tremulous sigh. “Yeah.”

“Can you talk about it now?”

“I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it,” she replied, flatly.

“Try me,” he smiled. “I’m tough. I can take it.”

“O…okay. Well, when I started drawing the incision,” she began, hesitantly, waving a hand in the direction of where they had been on the bed, “I flashed on actually doing your autopsy. It seemed so real. Having to cut open this beautiful body,” she said, running her fingers over his bare chest, “take out your organs, weigh them, record them. Having to carve you up, remove your brilliant brain, your…cold, cold heart.” She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest trying to ascertain if his heart was still beating and worried her lip whilst a few fresh tears trickled down her cheek. 

“I don’t have a heart, Molly. Hasn’t anyone ever told you?” 

“Don’t make fun, especially since I’ve seen the recent changes in you,” she said. “I never told you this, Sherlock, but the very idea of having to do that has bothered me for a long time. I didn’t know how much, though, until this minute. How horrible it would be. I…couldn’t take doing that. Just the vague realization that it could happen hurts me,” she pressed a hand against her breast. “That you might be killed because of the danger you chase. That you wouldn’t be in the world anymore,” she admitted, trailing off.

“Ah, I see,” he said, quietly.

“No,” she replied. “You don’t. You can’t possibly know how I fear for your safety, how angry I get when you start another stupid, crazy, dangerous case, how I live in terror, waiting on that phone call from John or Greg telling me you’re dead. I’m not built for this, Sherlock. You are. I’m just…not.”

“Someone else could do the autopsy,” he suggested.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she said, sadly, hanging her head before a rising anger took over. “You stupid man! I don’t want you to be dead! I lo— like, I like having you here, with me. Us.” She gazed at him then, and was surprised to see he was listening carefully, his face concerned, open, his left eyebrow curving up in that particular way which meant he was affected on an emotional level. “Do you want to hear the other bits?”

“Sure,” he agreed, trying to put on a brave face even though his heart was sinking. “Get it all out, Molly. It’s time.”

“The drugs,” she sighed. “I hate the drugs. You’re just as likely to die from an overdose than by getting shot by a criminal. I was terrified for you in the ambulance that time. You were in really bad shape —dehydration, tachycardia, kidney failure — and you didn’t even seem to care! You need to deal with your addictions, Sherlock. They’re not good for you. Or me, or John, or Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, or your parents, or Sarah, or Anne—“

“Yes,” he said quietly, his head bowed. “I know.”

“That last time,” she continued, shaking her head. “That scared the hell out of me. And you were so cavalier about it all. That hurt even more, that you would be so flippant with your own life.” She covered his hand with her own, pleading with him. “Don’t you know there’s people who care for you? Don’t you understand how much your death will hurt me…I mean us?”

“When I’m in the middle of a case,” he explained, “nothing is more important to me. I’ll do anything to solve it. Anything.” 

“Then your priorities are confused,” she declared. 

There was a pause whilst he absorbed this. He nodded. “I suppose they are. Is this what drove you into Greg’s arms?”

“Partly,” she admitted.

“What happened between you two?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“Well, it’s complicated…and difficult,” she sighed. “It’s because of that phone call. That damned phone call. I was so angry at you, Sherlock! You have no idea. I’d had the worst day and that phone call…after you rang off I was shocked, confused, absolutely enraged and I didn’t realize at the time how upset I was. I felt used, Sherlock, and over the next few days when you didn’t show up I slowly turned to ice. You know how sometimes you’re so furious you just freeze solid? 

“I expected you to come over, to show up at my door and explain,” she continued. “I wanted you to come sweeping in my flat, take me in your arms and wildly kiss me. And we would fall into bed together and make love for hours and be together forever and it would all be perfect and lovely.” She paused before adding, “I wanted that very badly.” She sighed deeply, her head down, remembering that broken day.

“I did show up,” he countered. “You told me I was a selfish, manipulative, abusive, lying bastard and dumped me. Not that you were wrong, but…” he shrugged. “I could not read you that night,” he admitted, shaking his head. “You seemed angry, your words certainly were, but you were acting so calm, even unaffected. I was confused by the disparity. And now I know what it feels like to be crushed by a glacier.” He shivered. “You’re very powerful, Molly. More than you know.”

“Yes, but you didn’t show up for nearly a week,” she said, “leaving me hanging, wondering what the hell was going on! It’s a bit of a letdown building up a huge romantic fantasy like that only to have it fizzle out. Again.” She gave him a significant look. “Just another in a long line of thwarted fantasies about you, by the way. And by the time you showed up it was too late because things had changed. It had already happened.”

“What happened?” he asked anxiously.

_Here it comes _, his brain said.__

____

“God, how do I tell you this? All right, I…I can do this.” She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I spent the entire next day just stewing about it, about us, and not for the first time. I mean, you’ve always squelched my advances before, but this time was different. You actually said it. We said it. To each other. That thing; those words. And then nothing happened! 

____

“So, the day after that I went to work and tried to forget about it. To forget…about you. A few hours later Greg showed up on a case, needing some autopsy information. He told me a little bit about what happened. It was unreal, Sherlock. It was difficult to absorb. I barely remembered anything after he said you have a criminally psychotic sister.” She shuddered. “I think I blocked a lot of it out of my mind — it was too much to take in and my nerves were already raw. It didn’t become really clear until John explained it one day when I was sitting Rosie, right after you’d left for Holsworthy.”

____

He hung his head, nodding. “Yes, the whole thing was awful. I don’t think I’ve quite come to terms with all of it yet. I mean us; how deeply I care for you and how my life, our lives, would need to be adjusted. And I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t know what to do, because things changed between us so quickly, and you know I’m no good at this kind of stuff. I never wanted to be in love again — I packed that away decades ago. I forced you to upset our unsatisfactory equilibrium, didn’t I?”

____

“Yes,” she said softly, raising her eyes to his. “You did. I know you’re not good at this. But it was such a big thing and I was so expectant.” 

____

“I wanted to come over instantly, Molly. I wanted, no, needed to hold you and kiss you, to feel you, soft and warm, in my arms. I really did,” he said. “But I kept procrastinating because…because I was scared,” he admitted, looking away. “I told myself I had too much to do dealing with the aftermath and that this could wait a bit. And then the more I waited, the harder it got.” He shook his head, regretfully.

____

“I can understand that,” she said, giving him a gentle smile. “It doesn’t make you any less of a shit, though.”

____

He nodded. “I’ll take that. But go on,” he urged. “What happened after Greg told you?”

____

“I lost it, Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, I really lost it. All this pent up…stuff between us, all my longing, anger, and frustration, all your hesitation and dodging around. Years of it came pouring out. I exploded, started screaming and crying and throwing things. I don’t even know why. I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. I managed to smash most of the beakers in the lab — don’t tell Stamford, okay? — and I was just getting starting on the graduated cylinders when Greg came over and grabbed me, really hard, to get me to stop. He put his arms around me and held me tight. Wouldn’t let go as much as I ranted. I beat his chest, I kicked him, I screamed terrible things about you, calling you all sorts of names. He was wonderful, nice and steady, you know? His arms were so strong and comforting, and he kept stroking my cheek and telling me everything would be okay. And then suddenly I was kissing him, or maybe he was kissing me. I don’t really know, I can’t remember.”

____

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “Great,” he muttered. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but two days — two days — after I told you I loved you, you jumped Lestrade?”

____

“Yes,” she replied, sounding defensive. “It’s not like I could help it, and where were you, anyway? Besides, he’s had a thing for me for years, you know,” she added. “He didn’t act on it though because he was married. And now he’s not. He’s really nice, Sherlock. He’s kind and compassionate and we get along well. There’s no drama with him. He’s settled. I like him.”

____

He nodded. “I get it,” he said sadly, and shrugged, growing angry with himself for procrastinating. “Everything I’m not. He is a good man,” he agreed. “And maybe he is better for you than I am but Christ, Molly! I feel like I’m on fire. I’m burning up and I’m going to burst into flames.” He looked away, clenching his jaw.

____

It was her turn to be uncomfortable. “Greg and I…we’re kind of committed to each other now,” she said, her brow creasing. There was a long silence, both lost in their thoughts. “I still want us to be friends, Sherlock, because I care for you,” she continued. “I just can’t be…in love with you. Do you think we can manage that, or is there too much between us?”

____

“We can try,” he replied. “I don’t want to lose your friendship; you’re too important to me, and not just because I lo…how I feel about you.” 

____

“I can’t cheat on Greg,” she said regretfully, shaking her head. “I know you think it’s just body parts but I don’t feel the same way about it. I care about him very much and it would be wrong of me. Thank you for bringing me here; it’s been lovely and you’ve been very kind and understanding, but I just…can’t.”

____

He nodded and sighed deeply, resigned to his loss, and fell silent for a few moments. That recurring ache he was getting too familiar with spread through his chest again. “I guess we’re not on sex holiday any longer, are we, Molly?” he ventured. 

____

She looked pained, shook her head and wiped a tear away. “No, we’re not. You can sleep on your side of this gigantic bed and I’ll sleep on mine. There’s plenty of room. And maybe later I can give you pointers on how to suffer through an unrequited love. I’m an expert at that.” She gave him a look.

____

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest and falling back on the bed. “Shot through the heart.” He sighed again and rolled over, curling up on his side of the bed, his knees hugging his chest, facing out, and she did the same on her side, snapping off the light. The wilderness between them now — the expanse of purple mulberry silk — felt enormous, a ghostly no-man’s land, dangerous and inaccessible, fenced with barbed wire forged from steely mistakes and rusty regret.

____

Exhausted, they both slept deeply, dreamlessly. He woke up early, opening an eye just as the first golden streaks of dawn were creeping into the valley and the birds began singing in the beech trees. He dared not move; he could barely breathe. She was in his arms, her cheek pressed against his bare chest, her arms around him, her legs entangled with his, her sleeping breath slow and even. Somehow during the night, like becalmed ships sailing upon a foggy, glassy sea and drawn together by mutual attraction, they’d found each other in the sweet, merciful darkness in the center of the bed. 

____

_Perhaps all is not lost_ , his brain noted.

____

Breathing a contented sigh, he closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.

____

***

____


	21. Just Breathe

**Just Breathe**

_Stay with me,  
You're all I see.  
Did I say that I need you?  
Did I say that I want you?  
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see,  
No one knows this more than me.  
As I come clean.  
I wonder everyday  
As I look upon your face  
Everything you gave  
And nothing you would take  
_

  


When Sherlock woke up and cracked his eyes open a few hours later he was staring directly into Molly’s deep, unfathomable brown eyes. She was laying fully dressed on her side in bed, her head propped up on her hand, watching him.

He rolled onto his back and rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wake up and not think about how warm and soft her skin had felt last night. “Telly’d be more interesting,” he said.

“But not as pretty,” she replied, smoothly.

“Ah, you appear to be in a giving vein today,” he muttered.

“Is that a reference to Richard III? You’re comparing me to a murderous sociopath?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Are you upset? I suppose after last night I deserved that. But you said there’d be no pressure.”

He turned his head to meet her gaze and sighed. “I was hoping there wouldn’t have to be. I take it you’re hungry.”

“Yes. Get up and feed me,” she demanded, softening her request with a smile. He rolled out of bed, got dressed, and they went down to breakfast. As he poured her a second cup of strong coffee from the press on the table she put her hand over his and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“What for?”

“For hurting you last night.”

“I’m not hurt,” he lied, shrugging. “I’m a little disappointed in the outcome, but I’m not hurt.”

She frowned and looked pensive. He was doing that Sherlock thing, embodying that cold, aloof affect which meant he’d retreated into his intellect. His voice was flat and even his body language had changed; his back was straighter and he seemed stiff, pulled away from her in some way she couldn’t quite identify. She had hurt him, she realized. But it couldn’t be helped — her reservations had overridden her desire last night. Properly so, she thought. It wouldn’t have been fair to Greg.

The evening certainly hadn’t turned out the way she’d expected and for that she also felt disappointment but their talk had actually been rather beneficial. Now everything was out in the open, he knew her reasons and concerns and this morning she felt more relaxed around him, more comfortable. She hadn’t realized she’d been sitting on all of that fear and anguish and it felt good to have eliminated any last secrets between them. She piled more blackberry jam on top of the copious amount of clotted cream already on her scone and wolfed the whole thing down in two huge bites, her cheeks bulging.

“A little scone with your clotted cream?” he asked, dryly, finishing his tea and toast. “I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen. Just say the word and I’ll have them bring you a gigantic bowl of it and a big spoon with which to shovel it in.”

She snort-giggled and managed to swallow without choking. “I love this stuff,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s so rich and delicious. Makes me feel wicked eating it, though. I can already feel all this cholesterol hitting my arteries. Are we going to hike into the moor today?” 

“If you want,” he said, gazing at her, his eyes suddenly becoming soft, warming to her once again, incapable of preventing it. He marveled at her ability to cut into him like a knife, flaying him open, exposing all the tenderness he tried to bury deep inside. “Whatever you like.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Say, is Honiton nearby, by any chance?”

“Yes, it is. You want to go to All Hallows?”

She nodded. “Do you mind? I’d like to see it and do a little shopping for lace.”

“That’s fine. We could also swing by the Donkey Sanctuary in Sidmouth. It’s sort of on the way and I know how much you like animals.”

“Oh, yes! I’d love that!” she breathed, looking pleased. “Donkeys! Lots of them!”

“More than you could possibly imagine,” he added.

“I don’t know about that,” she replied, laughing. “I can imagine a lot of donkeys.”

Their server came over to clear so they asked about the weather and he informed them if they wanted to walk up to the moor today they’d better get started because a strong front was supposed to move in later that afternoon. Heavy rain and thunderstorms were expected.

The hike was a little more difficult than Molly had reckoned but it was well worth the exertion. It felt good to stretch her legs and get her blood pumping. They followed the river Teign up onto the high moor alongside a roaring waterfall which spilled down into the valley. Once on top she looked around in wonder at the great, flat expanse, a landscape unlike anything else she’d ever seen before. She breathed the fresh, clean air deep into her lungs.

Purple moor grass and yellow gorse dotted the ground with tufts of spiky brown cotton grasses edging large, flat rafts of smooth, worn stone. Enormous, oddly shaped rounded towers of granite rose up around them, weathered by wind and rain, the largest and most impressive being Gidleigh Tor. Across the way a few dark-coloured, hardy moor ponies whinnied and nickered, wild and free, kicking up their heels and cantering playfully across the rocky plateau, perhaps aware of and excited by the approaching storm.

“Oh! It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, overjoyed, throwing her arms wide and having a twirl. The blue sky overhead was vast and eternal, greying storm clouds beginning to build in the far distance. The air itself almost seemed alive. “Heathcliff!” she cried. “Fill my arms with heather!”

He looked around. “It’s, uh, not in bloom yet,” he admitted, sheepishly. “Not until July. Perhaps some gorse instead?” He carefully picked a sprig of the yellow blossoms and gave it to her. She immediately stabbed herself on the thorns and yelped. “Here, let me,” he offered, taking the injured hand and pressing a gentle kiss to her fingers.

She laughed. “If that isn’t a metaphor for our relationship I don’t know what is.”

He looked at her adoringly. “I’d roll in gorse if you asked,” he confessed. “Torn to shreds and I wouldn’t even care.”

“No,” she whispered. She grabbed his hand and held it over her heart, suddenly serious. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Sherlock. Not ever.”

“Oh, Molly,” he said. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “You’re so good.”

“Not really,” she admitted sadly, shaking her head. “Not as much as I’d like to be.”

“I beg to differ,” he said. “You’re the bestest, kindest person I know. Say, Molly, did you know when the gorse is in bloom, kissing is in season?” he informed her, giving her another quick kiss followed by a sly smile.

“I thought it bloomed all year,” she responded.

“It does,” he grinned, putting his arm around her. She wound her arm around his waist in turn and leaned her head against his shoulder as they stood there, side by side in silence on the lonely, stony moor, utterly content. A growing wind whipped their hair and the air began to turn colder.

“Look, Sherlock,” she said, pointing. A large flock of starlings took to the air — perhaps driven by the gusting winds — rising up from the trees below the moor where they’d been roosting, starting to murmurate, flying together in a great, dark swathe across the endless sky, swiftly dipping and turning in astonishing unison to dizzying effect. “So dazzling,” she breathed, her cheeks flushed from the bracing air, her eyes sparkling. She looked around and took a deep, satisfied breath. “Magnificent.”

“Yes,” he agreed, gazing at her. “They are. C’mon,” he said, tugging on her hand. “We still have time to get to Scorhill before we have to go down. I don’t want to catch you out in bad weather. Chance of lightening strikes up this high.”

“Ooo, I don’t like that,” she shivered. They set off in search of the stones. “Oh my god!” she squealed as she stepped off the flat stone onto the ground. “It’s like walking on jelly!” She bounced up and down, feeling the earth sloshing thickly, weirdly, under her feet.

“Yes,” he said, jumping along with her, laughing. “It’s a bog. Peat, partially decomposed moss and other vegetation suspended in water and built up over thousands of years. Bizarre, isn’t it?” He bent over, inspecting the ground. “And look at these tiny reddish plants, Molly. They’re called sundew. They’re carnivorous, exude a fragrant, sticky kind of sap which attracts and traps flies and gnats so they can eat them. Ooo, look! This one’s digesting something.”

She bent over to peer at it. “Really? That’s so cool! Nice to know even the flora up here can be murderous,” she said, admiringly, before they continued on.

They didn’t stop long at the Neolithic monument, a large circle of heavily weathered granite stones —some standing, some fallen — thickly encrusted with lichens and badly damaged by looters before heading back down to pack the car and check out of the hotel. “Such a shame,” she commented on the state of the stones as they made their descent.

She was enchanted by the Donkey Sanctuary, located east of Dartmoor on gentle, green rolling hills. A long line of donkeys of different colours and sizes stood with their heads over the fence alongside the walkway to the Visitor’s Centre, hoping for pets and tender offerings of carrots or sweet hay. Others ran together in herds across the slopes and rolled on the grass or in the sand pits, whistling, braying, and playing tug of war with abandoned wellies, happy and high-spirited. 

She went down the line, hugging each one, talking to them and giving them kisses on their bristly noses whilst he watched, moved by the depth of love she was capable of expressing and wishing he was better at it himself. After learning about the rescue and rehabilitation mission of the sanctuary she became a member on spot, adopting a stubborn old brown donkey with a white muzzle which she, with a wink towards Sherlock, promptly named after him. “Intractable, just like you,” she laughed, as she signed the adoption papers.

They drove north to Honiton and located the lace museum where she spent an inordinate amount of time picking out antique lace, books, cute divider pins, thread, and several dozen bobbins, marveling over the different styles and the clever, intricate craftsmanship. She stood at the counter, ruminating, unable to decide between two collars — one a bold, sculptural Gros Point de Venise from the late 17th century and the other a delicate, refined Point de Gaze from around 1860. “Each of these would look nice on that dark blue dress I have,” she mused and then held them up for him. “What do you think, Sherlock? Which one?”

He rolled his eyes and groaned, the shopping torturous. “Get them both,” he advised. “Then you don’t have to choose.”

“I would but they’re a little pricey,” she said, hesitantly. “One is enough.”

He threw his credit card on the glass countertop. “Charge it,” he instructed.

“I can’t possibly accept that,” she protested, pushing the card back at him. “You’ve already spent too much money on me. Put it away. You’re too generous.”

“Wrap them both,” he growled at the clerk, who pulled out some tissue with a smile and began carefully folding the collars, the sale made. “Add that handkerchief, too,” he added, pointing at a lovely piece of Honiton. He turned towards her. “Molly,” he stated, “I have more money than I know what to do with. If I ever run short, which I never do, I take a case from some giant corporation or bank. They’re too stupid to question my fees so it all works out. Just think of it as greasing the wheels of capitalism. And then this nice, extremely patient woman can pay her rent this month.” He smiled charmingly at the salesclerk.

Molly stood there, staring at him in wonder. “You have money? I never guessed, although I don’t know why I didn’t, given the way you love expensive suits. Then why do you continue living at Baker Street? You could do much better.”

“Because Mrs. Hudson needs me,” he replied, the tips of his ears turning pink at this admission, as if caring were a fault. “Who else would look after her and pay the astronomical rent on that scuzz dump? Besides, I’ve gotten used to the place and its low character suits me,” he chuckled.

She looked pleased, nodded knowingly, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You really are a sweet man,” she said, squeezing his upper arm fondly. “Don’t give me that look. You’re a softy, Sherlock Holmes.” He opened his mouth to object but she placed a finger over his lips, shutting him up. “Thank you for my lace,” she grinned, tucking the large parcel under her arm as they left.

They were nearly back to Holsworthy when they hit the leading edge of the incoming storm. Big, fat raindrops spattered against the windscreen and low, rolling thunder rumbled across the sky. Shards of lightening sparked in the distance. She began to shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, adjusting the heater.

“No,” she replied. “It’s just…I don’t much care for thunderstorms.”

“We’ll be home soon,” he assured her.

They got back in time for cocktails and dinner. Whilst Molly gulped down a large glass of red wine he regaled the family with descriptions of the terrific food at Gidleigh Park, and she spent some time talking to Anne about the moor. Anne, having spent her entire life living under the shadow of that great formation, was an expert on the geology, flora, and fauna of the region and was able to answer many of her questions, enjoying Molly’s interest in and appreciation of her favourite place on earth.

After dinner everyone retired to the library to listen to the rain and work on a few projects. Robert, tired and looking paler than usual, immediately fell asleep in a large, comfy chair by the warm, glowing fireplace, Sarah worked on her lace, Anne on her knitting, Scott took a book into a corner and Sherlock stood, his arms behind his back, looking out the windows at the storm building in the darkness and thinking.

Molly got out her project. She’d been using the microscope to examine the boxes of old, prepared glass slides and affixing new labels with corrected notations on them whenever she found an error, cleaning and reorganizing them into a better, more modern scientific system. She jumped as a particularly loud crash of thunder boomed overhead. The slide she was holding slipped from her fingers, fell on the table, and broke in half. “Dammit!” she muttered.

“Something wrong, Molly?” Sherlock inquired, turning to gaze at her with concern. Scott glanced up from his book.

“No,” she replied, nervously. “Not really. I broke a slide. I never do that. Well, it was incorrect anyway. It’s pollen which was labeled _rhododendron ponticum_ when it’s clearly _rhododendron polyandrum_.” Just then a bolt of lightening zapped and cracked through the sky, accompanied by an enormous boom of thunder. The windows rattled. Molly involuntarily let out a high pitched, “Eeep!” and started shaking. 

The noise woke Robert up. “What’s going on?” he asked, blearily, looking around.

“Nothing, my darling,” Anne said, allaying his concerns. “Everything is fine. Have storms always bothered you, Molly?” she inquired calmly, not dropping a stitch in her knitting despite the sharp thunder and cracking lightening outside which shook the house.

“Yes,” she admitted, wrapping her arms around her middle, her eyes wide and distressed. “My mother hated them so ever since I was little whenever one would come up she’d freak out and start screaming, rushing around in a panic closing all the blinds and dragging me into a dark closet with her until it passed. I grew to be terrified of them and it’s never gone away. Scott, just so you know, this is a perfect example of what psychologists call conditioned behavior.” She tried to laugh but tears welled up in her eyes instead.

“You poor darling,” Sarah said, sympathetically. “I wish there was something I could do for you. Sherlock,” she commanded, “read something with that gorgeous voice of yours. Something soothing.”

“Keats?” he suggested, selecting a book off the shelves. Molly nodded. They settled on the sofa together as he turned the pages looking for the perfect poem. “Ah. One of my favourites. _The Lake Isle of Innisfree_ ,” he began, his voice low, deep, and comforting.

_I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,  
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;  
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,  
And live alone in the bee-loud glade. _

_And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,  
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;  
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,  
And evening full of the linnet's wings._

_I will arise and go now, for always night and day  
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;  
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,  
I hear it in the deep heart's core._

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Molly breathed. “More, please.” He continued to read to her for another hour or so whilst the winds snapped and roared outside, the rain changing over to hail which beat sharply against the windows alongside the increasing thunder and lightening.

“Getting a bit strong out there,” Robert remarked. “Hope there won’t be too much damage. I’m going to bed. Anne?” She put her knitting aside and got up to accompany him. Sarah and Scott retired soon after, and Molly nodded when Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, shutting his book. They went up to their separate bedrooms.

Molly lay in her bed, still terrified, shivering and shaking, unable to sleep as the storm continued to rage. The limbs of the cedar tree close to the house, driven by the howling wind, were scraping and banging against the window. She tried everything she could think of to take her mind off the storm but nothing worked. Finally, unable to stand it any longer she threw the blanket aside and rushed down the hall to Sherlock’s room. She wordlessly raised the bedcover and slipped in beside him, laying on her side, trembling all over. He flipped over sleepily and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her near. “Just breathe, baby,” he murmured. “You’re all right.” He tucked his nose behind her ear and fell back to sleep. She covered his hand with her own, twining her fingers through his and matched her breathing to his, slow and even, feeling his closeness warm and comforting on her back. Soon her trembling died away and she also slept, deeply and dreamlessly.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the url to The Donkey Sanctuary:  
> https://www.thedonkeysanctuary.org.uk/visitor-information
> 
> Also on Twitter:  
> @SidmouthDonkeys, or  
> @DonkeySanctuary
> 
> Sponsor a donkey for just a few dollars a month!


	22. Picking Up the Pieces

**Picking Up the Pieces**

_What is this desire, it seems we always have,  
we want to do things our own way,  
we come to our human failures, and we can't admit that we are wrong,  
he's right there, picking up the pieces of my life. _

When Molly woke up the next morning Sherlock was gone and the bed seemed cold and empty. She got up, got dressed, and went down to the breakfast room. Anne was standing, talking with Philip who was filling her in on the storm damage in his short, gruff manner, turning his cap in his hands. “—and five broken windows,” he said. “That I know of. Need to do another sweep of the house. Might have missed some. I’ve already called the glazer. He should be here later this afternoon. Also, five centimeters of water in the kitchen which Bridget is working on mopping up. I need to get up on the roof, I’m positive we lost some slate up there. Out on the grounds many broken limbs, two trees down altogether and have to be removed. The lawn’s a mess, littered with leaves and branches. Ripped the blooms off the cherry trees and the hail tore up the flower beds and beat a number of bushes all to hell. Lost half the peonies. Sorry to say, ma’am, but the garden’s just not going to be the same this summer.”

“That’s terrible!” Anne said, visibly upset. “Just awful! All that work, for naught. Such a disappointment, but at least everyone is safe. I do hate it, though, when the grounds don’t look their best,” she fretted. “Hire some help from the village if you need more hands for the cleanup. I don’t want you to wear yourself out trying to fix everything, Philip. I know you’re wont to do that.” Molly went over to the sideboard and dug out the canister of tea. “Oh, that’s Robert’s special tea,” Anne interjected, with a wave of her hand.

“Okay,” Molly said, unsure what that meant.

“Some rather bad news, I’m afraid,” Philip continued. “Aldous got hit by a lightening strike.”

“No!” Anne cried, now on the verge of tears. “How bad is it?”

“He’s lost several large branches, but they’re clean breaks. Changes his look, but he’ll be okay,” Philip was quick to assure her. “I got there right after, managed to put out the fire. We were lucky he didn’t burn down to the ground.”

Anne flapped one hand in distress before clapping it over her mouth. “Everything’s at sixes and sevens today! It’s too much! I can’t take anymore!” she proclaimed, rushing from the room. Philip glanced over at Molly and heaved a deep sigh. He looked exhausted — greyer and more grizzled than usual, deep bags under his eyes, his shoulders bent. 

“Have you been up all night?” she asked. He nodded. She pulled out a chair. “Sit down,” she urged, going to fix him a plate of food and some strong coffee. The food offerings were thin this morning, Cook having been too busy trying to make the kitchen serviceable to prepare her regular breakfast. She’d just provided some scrambled eggs, toast, and jarred preserved fruit from the still room. Molly dished him up a large plate and sat down next to him. He dug in gratefully.

“Lady Anne’s very worried,” he informed her. “We’ve weathered bad storms before, but on top of everything Lord Robert had a terrible night. Touch and go, apparently. She said he wouldn’t let her ring for an ambulance.”

“Oh, no! That bad? Shall I go up?” Molly asked. “I might be able to do something.”

He shook his head. “She wants to be alone with him. You’ll only get in the way, I think. He told me last week, in private, that he wants to die in this house, not in some cold, impersonal hospital room. I think he’ll rally, though. I have to believe that,” he said firmly. “This house wouldn’t be the same without him. Bridget told me he finished the tray she sent up this morning. He’s strong. He’ll get better.”

She bit her lip. “What can I do to help with the cleanup?”

He looked at her. “That’s kind of you. You might check with my wife, see if she needs any help putting the kitchen back together. Or you could come outside and help with the tree damage. Sherlock and Scott are out there now, working on it. Even Harold is ‘helping,’” he snorted, making air quotes, “but he’s pretty useless. Put him on raking leaves and debris for the shredder after he almost cut his leg off with the chainsaw.” He shoveled down the last of the eggs, tucked several pieces of toast in his jacket pocket, and stood up. “Well, I’m back at it.”

“Don’t overdo,” she advised. “I’ll just have some quick breakfast and go check on Cook.” He nodded and put his cap back on as he left. She scarfed down some food and went to work.

That night everyone sat around the dinner table, exhausted but pleased with their progress, as well as at the sight of Robert, who was able to come down to join them. He had rallied, just as Philip had predicted. He looked pale and shaky, but took his seat proudly at the head of the table. “Good job, all,” he smiled at them. “Well done. Can’t tell you how grateful I am for all your hard work. I’ll help tomorrow.”

“You absolutely will not,” Anne declared. “Not until you’re fully recovered.” He waved her off but everyone knew there was no possibility he’d be able to do what he wanted. Not with the lioness in charge. Anne started the port around the table and Molly chased it with a bottle of paracetamol for people’s strained, aching muscles. Everyone drank a little too much — including Scott who had a glass of wine — went to bed early and slept like logs.

It took two days and the assistance of a goodly number of lads from the village to get the house and grounds back into a semblance of order, but everyone breathed easier when it began to shape up, looking much more like the Holsworthy of old. Philip, under consultation with Anne, ordered dozens of plants to begin replacing the ones that had been damaged.

The next afternoon after the dust had settled Sherlock suggested he and Molly go fishing on the lake, promising to show her the finer points and even offering to bait the hook if she was too squeamish. Molly, repressing a laugh, agreed. They donned their wellies and went down to the boathouse to drag out the heavy, old wooden rowboat. “Don’t worry, Molly,” he assured her. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Oh, thank god,” she breathed, sarcastically. “I was so scared we might drown in this oversized puddle.”

It was a beautiful afternoon with the sun shining strongly, casting a thousand sparkles across the rippling water, a light breeze stirring the air. She raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes momentarily, drinking in the pleasant, radiating warmth.

Pushing off from shore he asked if she’d like to row. She shook her head and turning, batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh, no,” she replied, coyly. “You’re the man and you’re so much stronger than me. You’ll do a much better job, I’m sure.” Shrugging but taken by her compliment, he headed out to the center of the lake. “Um, Sherlock, not that I know or anything, but perhaps closer to the edge might be better? Maybe over there,” she pointed, “near those half-submerged fallen trees?”

“Sure,” he acquiesced easily, changing course. “Wherever you like. Now, Molly,” he began to explain after they’d found a cool, shady spot under overhanging trees near the far bank amidst the reeds and he’d dropped the anchor, “this is how you do it. Here’s all the stuff you’ll need and the worms. You set up like this.” He started to tortuously arrange his fishing gear. “Want me to bait your hook?” he asked.

“Not yet. Hmm,” she replied, poking through the tackle box, considering the contents. “There’s pike out here, isn’t there? You know, I think I’m going to try one of these spinners. This silver minnow should work well. And just to be sure….” she took the net and dipped a few minnows out from the shallower water to use as bait. Then she quickly added a few sinkers to her line, tied on the lure with a knot he’d never seen before, and expertly affixed the tiny fish to her hook. Casting her line, she started to reel it back in, twitching it with a practiced gesture to spark the attention of the bigger fish. 

He gave her an uncomfortable side eye as he painstakingly hooked his worm and dropped his line, beginning to suspect she might know more about this than he’d anticipated. One hour later she’d already landed five large tench; he looked at his two small bream and grumbled under his breath. She was outright grinning at this point, humming to herself, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. “What a beautiful day,” she declared, her eyes shining after reeling in a gorgeous, meter-long pike, panting a little from the exertion of landing such a large prize. “They’re practically leaping into the boat!”

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, his face falling, paling in astonishment. 

“Lovely fishing weather, don’t you think, Sherlock? Need any help?” she inquired, glancing at his miserable catch. She erupted into laughter, slapping her knee, unable to contain her glee. “Your face!” she cackled, pointing.

“What the hell?” he burst out. “You’ve done this before!”

“My darling, I’ve been fishing since before I could walk,” she giggled. “My father ran a charter boat on the channel.”

“You never told me that!”

“You never asked,” she replied mildly, still smiling.

“Now I look like a twat,” he complained. 

“Yes, but an adorable twat,” she said, laughing. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I couldn’t help it. You just walked right into this one and I had to milk it, didn’t I? You would have done the same.”

He smiled at her, and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “I would have done just that. I have done that. You got me,” he grinned. “You know me too well, Molls.” 

They took the fish to Cook who accepted them with special thanks for the large, fine pike. “I’ll do something wonderful with this beauty,” she promised, patting it fondly as only a chef presented with an exemplary ingredient could understand.

After dinner which featured the pike she’d caught and accompanied by many compliments on the excellence of her fishing prowess, Molly worked on her lace for a little while, well after everyone else had gone to bed, before getting up and dragging out her slide project, wanting to finish it up. It was late before she polished the last few slides, arranged them in the box and put the whole thing away, feeling pleased with her small contribution towards the history of Holsworthy.

Still not feeling sleepy, she decided to visit the conservatory to collect a few samples for tomorrow’s examination before going into the breakfast room for a cup of tea and a late night sweetie, which she figured would help her fall asleep. Cook had left out iced buns tonight and they were one of her favourites. Molly was not disappointed; they were delicious, some of the best she’d ever had, she decided, as she licked her fingers clean. Then she went off to bed.

***


	23. Mushroom Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Ambivalent sex

**Mushroom Dreams**

_Sweet dreams of you  
Every night I go through  
Why can't I forget you and start my life anew  
Instead of having sweet dreams about you  
You don't love me, it's plain  
I should know I'll never wear your ring  
I should hate you the whole night through  
Instead of having sweet dreams about you_

  


Molly woke up, unable to move. Her wrists were pinned to the bed by two strong hands on either side of her head. There was a man laying on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, kissing the base of her throat and her collarbone. A spark of lightening split the sky, a shaft of light flickering across the bed and with a shock, she realized they were both naked. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, their bellies touching, his heavy body holding her down, pressing her into the bed. 

He was warm and pale, his skin shining like the moon riding in a midnight sky, his flesh tempting hers as he pushed his hips into hers. She could feel him panting against her neck, could feel his hardening cock pulsing along her thigh. Something about him seemed familiar. She turned her head and saw a mass of tousled dark hair and a small curl, a tail twisting at the nape of his neck. Sherlock.

She opened her mouth to scream, to shout at him to get off, but for some reason nothing happened; the sounds wouldn’t come out. Grunting, she arched her back and tried to buck him off but he merely shifted his hips, sliding a strong thigh over hers, using his weight to keep her positioned underneath him and readjusting his firm grip on her wrists. She was completely helpless to stop him as his lips raked across her skin, burning her with his need.

She squirmed, twisting under his body which only seemed to excite him more, his cock growing harder as he licked and nipped at her neck. A heat began to fire in her belly just as she felt a pain on her skin above her jugular vein. 

He was biting her, moving his mouth over her body, leaving teeth marks on her flesh, on her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Strangely, it didn’t hurt like she expected it would. Instead, each sharp bite sent a shiver of pleasure rippling through her, waves of desire spreading outwards. He was making her wet, her juices blossoming, spreading between her thighs. 

She groaned, shaking her head, not wanting this and yet needing to feel his lips and hands on her skin, anticipating the sweet invasion of his body into hers. Her nipples grew hard, the sensitive peaks brushing against his chest and she thought she heard a low, pleased sound come out of him, or maybe it was a distant rumble of thunder, a storm passing over the dark, rising moor.

Looking up, she saw shadowy, sooty wings rising above them — enormous, enticing, perilous — growing out of his shoulder blades, starlight playing amongst the feathers. They unfolded, seeming as big as the room itself, as heavy as his body spreading over hers, threatening to overwhelm her. The moonlight glinted and splintered off their darkness, dazzling her. She felt the room spinning and squeezed her eyes shut, moaning.

She whimpered and squirmed, her mind shouting “ _no, no, no,_ ” but suddenly she could speak, and she was breathing in his ear, “ _yes, please, yes._ ” Her acquiescence seemed to be what he was waiting for. He let go of one wrist, snaking his hand over her ribs, hip, and thigh and hooking it under her knee, pulled it up and to the side, opening her. _No_ , she gasped. She went to scratch his face with her now free hand, but instead she found her arm sliding around his neck, tangling her fingers in his silky hair, holding him close.

His hand slid possessively back up her inner thigh, through the curls on her mons, moving lower, rubbing along her slit until his fingers drove inside of her. And then he was fucking her with his hand, seeking to awaken her buried desire, pumping into her slick ripeness, sending shocks of pleasure thrumming throughout her quivering body. 

Somehow, he was making her want this. She wanted to feel his hard cock in her, wanted all of him to surround her, engulf her, penetrate her. Bending his head, his lips captured her nipple, licking it, biting it, sucking on it until she moaned, begging for something she wouldn’t, couldn’t articulate. Suddenly, he removed his fingers and she felt instantly empty and abandoned, needing him inside her again. 

Then she felt his cock poised, hard and ready, pushing at her entrance. Torn, she was helpless to stop him and even less sure she wanted to put an end to this thick, earthy deliciousness. Overpowered, her body seemed to belong to him alone, and she simultaneously wanted to continue and wanted to reject him. Yet of their own accord her legs spread farther apart, her hips grinding against his, inviting him inside.

He sank deep within her, withdrew fully, and did it again, pushing roughly into her, over and over. His hand moved up her back and under her shoulder, giving him additional leverage to plunge into her even harder. She had never felt so full, so taken, desire shimmering through her in helpless waves and at that moment the bite marks across her flesh started seeping, weeping out a thick, black, inky fluid which dripped down her breasts, her stomach, pooling onto the sheets and smearing strange, gill-like patterns across his chest and arms. Some of it evaporated almost instantly, dust spiraling into the air, a dark powdery smoke which swirled through the night, landing on his feathered wings.

Those wings began to beat steadily over them, pushing against the air in slow, powerful strokes, lifting them off the bed. He wrapped his arms around her, still thrusting. He kissed her then, ravaging her mouth with his tongue, owning her completely. Her lips were bruised and swollen and she hung onto his shoulders as best she could, feeling faint, her muscles failing, becoming limp, her back arcing, curving towards the earth. He buried his face in her breasts and worried her nipples with his teeth, making her cry out in longing as she slowly ground her core against his hips. 

The inky fluid continued to flow from her wounds, but now small, phosphorescent mushrooms began to sprout from the bite marks, growing rapidly into little clumps, little circles like fairy rings on her shoulders, neck, and breasts. The metallic taste of dirt was in her mouth.

She hung, pliant and mindless in his arms, only aware of how needfully their bodies were joined, him driving fiercely into her, her legs now wrapped around his hips, holding them together. A raw, shuddering urgency began spreading through her, the first quivers of her orgasm rising, growing throughout her body.

It built with every hard thrust, with every breath, with every moan, overtaking her, rushing through her cells, transforming them into strange, ethereal particles until with a cry she burst open, exploding into a shimmering cloud of tiny, dark spores.

Molly woke up, for real this time, feeling deeply unsettled. She took a measured breath, trying to calm down. She checked the clock; it was nearly four a.m. Sitting up, she thought she might be sick. Scrambling off the bed she ran into the loo and bent over the bowl. She retched, but nothing came up. 

Turning towards the mirror, she pulled off her nightgown and inspected her body. There were no bite marks, no inky liquid, no mushrooms. She felt between her legs. She wasn’t dry, she was dripping wet, but she wasn’t sore like she should have been after rough, grinding sex like that. A dream, she realized with relief, it had been a dream. 

Shakily, she washed her face and between her thighs, brushed her teeth, and put her nightgown back on before sitting down on the edge of the tub to have a think. What could have caused such a dream? She’d never experienced anything like that before — so powerful, so bizarre, so…feral.

Ten minutes later, shaking her head in bewilderment, no closer to an answer, she stood up and left the loo to return to her room. Just as she got to her door she heard a small, clicking noise from the other end of the hallway. Turning, she saw Sherlock leaving Sarah’s bedroom in his pajamas bottoms, shirtless, tiptoeing across the hall to his own room. His back was to her; he hadn’t seen her. 

Biting her lip, her heart sinking, John’s words echoed in her mind. _You turned him down when he came to you. Why shouldn’t he go find love and comfort elsewhere, if that’s what he’s doing_? She went into her room and crawled back into bed, swallowing her tears. 

***


	24. Unmasked

**Unmasked**

_Oh, they tell me of a home where my friends have gone  
Oh, they tell me of that land far away  
Where the tree of life in eternal bloom  
Sheds its fragrance through the unclouded day  
Oh, the land of cloudless day  
Oh, the land of an unclouded sky  
Oh, they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise  
Oh, they tell me of an unclouded day_

—that evening—

Molly came storming into the dining room, late, where everyone was sitting around the table, waiting dinner on her. Harold was carving the roast lamb. Her eyes were dark, her mouth compressed into a firm, angry line.

“Oh, Molly, my dear,” Anne began, “we were just about to begin without y—“

“Just one minute, Lady Anne,” Molly interrupted, leaning over and opening the door to the sideboard. She fished out the canister of tea.

“That’s Lord Robert’s special tea,” Anne remarked, confused as to what Molly was doing with it.

“Yes, it is,” Molly replied, as she slammed the canister on the table next to Harold. “Explain this!” she demanded.

“It’s…tea,” Harold said, shrugging.

“It’s poison!” Molly snapped. “You’ve been trying to hasten Lord Robert’s death with this stuff for nearly a year. You get this in Japan, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s jaw fell open.

Harold laughed mildly, but his eyes darted nervously around the room. “Yes, I bring it back for him when I return from Aichi, but that’s not a crime. It’s not poisonous. It’s a medicinal blend of tea and other herbs and spices. For his…complaints.”

“He didn’t have any complaints until he started drinking this tea!” she said. “Isn’t that right, Lord Robert?”

“To tell you the truth, my dear,” Robert responded, pale and visibly shaken, “I really don’t recall. I…I think it all started happening around the same time, but I can’t be sure.”

“Well, I’m sure,” she said, firmly. “He showed up here almost a year ago and you started getting sick. Harold, I suppose you’re going to tell me that _Omphalotus Japonicus_ , commonly known as the Jack ‘o Lantern mushroom, isn’t poisonous?” she said. “The toxic compound in this ‘tea’ is illudin, which I identified in the library just now, thanks to that fabulous microscope and Bart’s database. It’s in that particular mushroom. It also contains small amounts of psilocybin.”

“What the hell?” Sherlock said, looking around, surprised.

“That mushroom is found in Japan and parts of China,” Molly continued. “It’s bioluminescent. My identification was precise and correct; I don’t make mistakes. You’ve been attempting to slowly murder your uncle, in order to take over the estate by weakening him and hoping his aging body wouldn’t be able to stand the strain. You want this house and the money that goes with it,” she accused him. “Lord Robert, have you changed your will recently? To include Harold?” She folded her arms across her chest and stood up as tall as she could, her chin high.

“Erm, well, um, yes,” Robert stuttered. “About four months ago. On Harold’s urging. What the hell is going on here?”

Harold jumped up, grabbed the carving knife, and took off.

“Sherlock…” Molly said, flatly, waving a hand in Harold’s direction. “Get him.”

Sherlock was already moving; he’d sprung to his feet and tackled Harold just outside the door. A tussle ensued, but no one had any doubt as to the eventual outcome between the plump, slow Harold and the lithe, powerful Sherlock. Harold sliced Sherlock across the left bicep with the knife before Sherlock could wrestle it away from him, but outside of a sharp snarl, the wound didn’t affect his attack at all. Throwing Harold onto his back, Sherlock put a knee on his chest to hold him down and proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the face, cursing. Harold feebly tried to block the blows with his hands, to no avail. Blood started to gush from a split lip and a large gash across his cheek.

Lady Anne had been sitting there in shock, her hand over her mouth. She dropped her hand and let out a scream as the horror of the situation penetrated her marijuana-fogged brain. Lord Robert gripped the arms of his chair. He looked as though he might pass out. “Poison!” he murmured.

“Scott,” Molly said, smoothly. “You have a phone. Please ring the constabulary for Harold and an ambulance for your grandfather. The emergency number is 999.” Scott gulped, his eyes wide, and started ringing. “Sherlock, stop it,” Molly continued. “Don’t beat him to a bloody pulp. Bring him in here, tie him up, and sit down. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck? How did you figure this out?” Sarah exclaimed, wide eyed, as she manoeuvred her wheelchair next to her father and put her arm around him. “Hang in there, daddy,” she whispered, rubbing his arm comfortingly. “You’ll be okay.”

Sherlock dragged Harold back into the dining room and threw him into a chair. Anne, now calm, got up, removed the thick, braided tie-back from the window drapery and handed it to Sherlock, who trussed Harold up securely, tying his hands together behind his back as well as to the chair legs. “I knew it,” Anne said, with a superior air and a firm nod. “I told you his aura is terrible. Didn’t I say that?” She sat down again.

“The police will be here in ten or 15 minutes,” Scott said, hanging up his phone. He took a long, unfaltering look at Harold. “Fuck you, you fucking arsehole piece of shit,” he added, “how dare you do that to my grandfather! I’m going to turn on the outside lights and wait for the police, because there are things going to happen in this room I shouldn’t be witness to. I’m only a child,” he said, winking at Sherlock before leaving and heading towards the front of the house.

“I’d yell at him for his language,” Sarah said, staring at Harold coldly, “but not this time, not when he’s right. You are a fucking arsehole piece of shit.”

“Don’t get any blood on the linens,” Sherlock snarled, securing the last knot and giving Harold a heavy slap across the back of his head. “And I’d really like to hear how you deduced this, Molly.”

“Sherlock, you’re wounded!” Sarah cried, just now noticing the blood seeping through his sliced shirt sleeve, dripping down his arm.

“It’s fine,” he said, dismissively, glancing at the cut.

“It’s not fine, Sherlock,” Molly declared. “Sit down. Sarah, is there a first aid kit in the house?” she asked.

“Jerome will know where it is,” Sarah replied, wheeling over to the bell pull and tugging on it repeatedly, urgently.

“Use a serviette to tie up Sherlock’s arm,” Anne suggested, passing one to Molly. “This one’s clean.”

“I’m okay,” Sherlock said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ve got an eight centimeter gash and it’s bleeding,” Molly replied, sternly, her voice increasing only slightly in volume. “I said _sit down_!” He immediately obeyed, sitting next to Harold to keep an eye on him as she bound up his arm tightly in a temporary bandage. “Put pressure on that with your other hand, Sherlock,” she instructed. 

Jerome appeared in the doorway, and Sarah sent him off to quickly find the first aid kit.

“Dear god,” Robert muttered, unable to absorb what was happening.

“Robert, don’t worry,” Molly said, holding her hands up in a reassuring gesture. “You’re not going to die: you’re going to be fine. They’ll put you in hospital for a few days, give you lots of fluids and run some liver and kidney tests to see if there’s been any permanent damage. I’m sure as soon as you get the poison out of your system you’ll be back to feeling like your old self again. You’re stronger than you know.” She walked around the table, sat down in her chair and held out a quivering hand. “Look, I’m shaking!” she noted.

“I think we all are, my dear,” Anne said, rising grandly to the moment, now as serene as ever. She retrieved the decanter of port from the sideboard, sat down, patted Molly’s arm, and poured her a generous serving of the fortified wine. “Drink this,” she urged. Molly took a large swig and a deep breath. “Anyone else?” Anne asked, pouring herself a glassful. 

“Maybe later, mummy,” Sarah replied. “Right now I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

“I could use some,” Harold said.

“Fuck off, you disgusting excuse for a human being,” Anne returned. “How dare you. In my own house!”

“How deadly are those mushrooms?” Sherlock asked.

“According to what I read, they aren’t usually fatal, except for children and the elderly, or if you eat too many,” Molly explained. “Apparently they’re often mistaken for chanterelles. They give you gastrointestinal distress, vomiting, lethargy, dehydration, headaches. All the symptoms you have,” she continued, nodding at Robert. “He probably thought that a slow application of them would wear you down over time, and eventually finish you off.”

“He was very nearly right!” Robert said, glaring. “Christ! You…bloody bastard!” 

“Death is inevitable,” Harold replied, mildly. Sherlock gave Harold another cuff across the ear, just because he could. “Go ahead and kill me, you arrogant prick,” Harold spat. “See if I care.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sherlock growled.

“Fuck you and fuck your _slut_ of a girlfriend over there,” Harold added, nodding in Molly’s direction. Molly paled and Sherlock, absolutely furious, hauled off and smashed his fist into Harold’s face as hard as he could, breaking his cheekbone. Harold screamed. Everyone winced and there was a long, terrible silence.

“But how did you know, Molly?” Sarah asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I wish it hadn’t taken me so long,” Molly replied. “It took me a while to put it all together. From what I understand, Harold arrived right about the time Robert started to get ill, about a year ago. He probably figured because your daughters were married or out of the house they didn’t need Holsworthy and it would be better left to him. I’d also bet he hasn’t any money of his own at all. Probably blew it on drugs or gambling or something, and decided to steal your money, your house. He’s displayed a number of pathological, anti-social traits just since I’ve been here. Didn’t your brother warn you of his predilections, Lord Robert?”

“My brother passed last year,” Robert said. “Right before he came to us. I mean, I knew Harold had some problems, but I thought I could help him by taking him in,” he finished, sadly. “I was a fool.”

“Not a fool, daddy,” Sarah offered. “A generous person who was taken advantage of by a sociopathic shithead.”

Jerome returned with the first aid kit. Molly took it, carefully peeled the blood-soaked serviette from Sherlock’s arm, and tore the rest of his sleeve off. “This makes two of your shirts I’ve ruined,” she noted, wryly. 

Sherlock smiled. “You’re forgiven,” he said, his eyes bright as he watched her attend to his arm.

She doctored his wound with a number of steri-strips before wrapping it up neatly in a sterile bandage. “You’re going to need sutures on that,” she pronounced. “I don’t have the supplies or I’d do it. No matter. You can ride to hospital in the ambulance with Lord Robert. I’ll drive down and pick you up.”

“I’ll go with you, Molly,” Scott volunteered, entering the room again. He’d crept back, drawn by the excitement, and was hanging around outside the door, eavesdropping.

“You’re going directly to bed,” Sarah said, firmly. 

“Not likely,” Scott snorted.

“And stop listening to other people’s conversations,” Sarah added. “It’s rude.”

“Aw, mummy,” Scott grumbled. He sat down in a chair, unwilling to leave.

Sherlock leaned in close to Molly. “You do good work,” he whispered. “Look at you, being all cool and commanding. You’re wonderful.” Molly blushed, pleased.

“What about my injuries?” Harold complained. “I’m bleeding to death. That man’s insane.”

“Shut up,” three separate people told him in unison. The room fell into a short silence, a collective breath being drawn.

“In a few months,” Sherlock informed him, “you’re going to wish you had bled to death. The prison I have in mind for you isn’t very nice. Although my sister might enjoy your company. She needs a new playmate, I’m told.”

“I just wish I’d figured this out earlier,” Molly said, shaking her head. “I could have spared Lord Robert additional pain.”

“Christ, I didn’t see it either and it’s what I do! And I’ve been in this house for months!” Sherlock admitted, embarrassed. He whapped Harold again, displacing his anger.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy romancing two women under the same roof you might have been paying more attention, Molly thought. “Sherlock, didn’t I tell you there’s always murders in big country houses?” she said. “And stop hitting him. It’s not helping; he’ll only get a solicitor and sue you for assault.”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock replied, giving Harold another smack. “I’ve got a Mycroft.” 

Lady Anne smiled. “Tell us how you figured it out, Molly,” she urged.

“So, my suspicions started my first morning here,” she began. “Well, not started, exactly, because I had no idea what was going on. I only put it all together this evening. I’m so sorry, Anne, but I don’t like those yellow teabags Cook leaves out,” she pointed at the sideboard, wrinkling her nose, “so after Sherlock and I got locked in the closet—“

“Reading nook,” he corrected.

“Reading nook,” she repeated.

“What?” Anne asked. “The one under the stairs, by the portrait gallery? How’d you get locked in there?”

“It’s not important,” Sherlock quickly butted in. “Just a little mix-up.”

“I needed a cup of tea very badly,” Molly continued. “I came in here, saw those teabags I don’t like, and scrounged around until I found that canister. I didn’t know it was Robert’s special tea that only he drinks, which actually helps prove my theory. Harold knew only Robert would drink it. No one else in this house would dare, so no one else would get poisoned. I didn’t know that, though, so I drank some. I didn’t find out until the other morning at breakfast, when I decided to have some, remember? I pulled it out and you told me only Robert drinks that tea, so I put it back. Well, I did have another cup. Last night. I figured it was only a little bit — who would notice?”

“Another piece of the puzzle,” Sarah mused.

“Exactly! After that first morning, I found you two in the library,” Molly continued, pointing at Sherlock and Sarah. “And I started not feeling well. I got snappish, an upset stomach, headache, thirsty. I had to leave before we could start lacing. I thought it was my nerves. It was my first day here, and I was awfully anxious, meeting all of you. Seems silly now,” she laughed. “You’re all so kind.” She looked around the table at them, bashfully. Lady Anne dabbed at a tear which threatened to fall.

Sarah nodded. “Yeah, I remember, you were flushed and you didn’t want any of Cook’s cherry cake.”

“And angry,” Sherlock added. “But that’s not unusual.” He grinned.

Molly smiled at him, patiently. “Yeah, you ticked me off, if I recall correctly. I’ve mostly stuck to coffee since, which I prefer, but I had a cup the night after you taught me to lace and I had terrible dreams and felt awful the next day, remember, Sherlock? Sluggish and thirsty. That was the day we went to Gidleigh Park. I thought it was eyestrain. And last night I had another cup, hoping it would help me sleep. I had the craziest…the wildest dream.” She blushed, stammering, not able to look Sherlock in the eye. “I…erm, won’t go into details, but I turned into a mushroom and dissolved into a cloud of spores, and that got me thinking about fungi. Have you been having weird dreams, Robert?”

He nodded. “Frequently. They’ve been horrible,” he said, “but I didn’t think they were connected to the medical problems, and I didn’t imagine I was being poisoned! I thought they were stress related. Growing old and being chronically ill takes a certain…toll on the mind.” 

Sarah took his hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Oh, daddy,” she murmured.

“Whenever I felt sick I didn’t connect it to the tea,” Molly elaborated. “I put it down to my nerves, or lack of sleep or something. You know how you do,” she said, nodding at everyone. “But last night before I went to bed last night I’d been collecting samples in the conservatory, trying to find something interesting to look at in the microscope. I found some really pretty slime mold in the fountain, and some mushrooms in the corner of the pineapple garden. I wasn’t thinking. I just pulled them up with my bare hand and put them in a sample container. Then I came in here and had that tea — I made a strong cup — and one of Cook’s leftover iced buns. Those baked goods she leaves out every night for midnight munchies are really tempting. I discovered them pretty quickly after I arrived,” she admitted. “And last night I licked my fingers clean because I’d gotten drippy icing all over them. 

“So when I had that dream, I thought it was the mushrooms I’d picked that I licked off my fingers. I only got around to testing them late this afternoon, because I’ve been working on my lace most of the day and we went for that long walk this morning, Sherlock. To be honest, I kind of forgot about them and it’s not like I was really expecting to find anything. Anyway, they weren’t poisonous, they were just regular, harmless little brown mushrooms — no toxins. That ruled them out. But by then my curiosity was piqued and I was determined to find out what had happened.

“I was convinced I’d had no ordinary dream. It was clearly caused by some kind of substance, maybe psilocybin or something similar. It wouldn’t have been in the buns; they were all gone this morning or I would have tested them too. But if they had been the source, surely other people would have mentioned feeling ill or even hallucinating. So on a whim I tested the tea, and there it was. Illudin. A bit of research led me to identifying the exact species. I also rehydrated a sample and found it still luminesced. Granted, I could have done a better job in London with my lab, but I’m satisfied with what I did. From there it was pretty easy to put the tea and Lord Robert’s illness together. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Jesus, Molly, you need to go to hospital, too!” Sarah exclaimed. 

“What for?” Molly replied, blankly.

“Because you’ve been poisoned!” Anne cut in. “Oh my god. This is awful. A guest in my house, poisoned! Are you feeling okay?”

“Oh. Right,” Molly managed, turning pale and trembling as it hit home she’d been deliberately poisoned. “I’m…I’m sure I’m fine. I didn’t have much of that tea.”

“You’re still coming with me to get checked out,” Robert insisted.

“Better safe than sorry,” Sherlock agreed, concerned. “But I am so proud of you, Molly.”

“This is ridiculous!” Harold snarled. “You can’t prove I know anything about it.”

“We’ve got the lab results, soon we’ll have medical confirmation, and it won’t be difficult to locate who you buy it from,” Sherlock said. “We know exactly where you go in Aichi, in Nagoya — we’ve got all your receipts. You’re not exactly unknown in that prefecture. I’m sure in exchange for immunity your contact will be glad to tell us everything, including the fact you asked for and procured the mushroom tea. It will go a lot easier for you if you just tell us who your contact is. The game is over, Hal.”

“You’re not getting anything out of me,” Harold said, spitting a gob of blood onto the white linen tablecloth.

“Oh, now, look at that,” Sherlock growled, his voice growing deeper, his body deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were blazing, filled with loathing. He was tensing like a cat ready to spring. Molly knew what it meant when he got like that. He was beyond angry — he was absolutely enraged. “Didn’t I tell you not to get blood on the linens?” he continued, sitting back and turning his head to address everyone. “Would you all mind leaving us alone for a couple of minutes? Hal and I need to have a few words.”

“Stop calling me that!” Harold said. “I hate that nickname.”

“I know you do,” Sherlock smiled, “ _Hal_. Go ahead. Get angry. I’d love it.”

Everyone silently filed out, into the nearest sitting room. Anne put a supportive arm around her husband as they left. Molly hung back for a moment, placing a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t kill him, Sherlock,” she advised. “Don’t break any bones, more bones, I mean, or put him in a coma. Just get the information. This isn’t the London police. They don’t know you like I do.”

He winked at her. “You forget, I have an international reputation. And it’s not my fault he slipped and cracked his head open trying to escape. I had nothing to do with it.”

She nodded and left, closing the doors behind her, and went to wait for the police with the others, ignoring the pained squeals and the blunt, thumping sounds issuing from the dining room.

***


	25. Farewell to Holsworthy

**Farewell to Holsworthy**

_No you don't know the one  
Who dreams of you at night  
And longs to kiss your lips  
Longs to hold you tight  
Oh I am just a friend  
That's all I've ever been  
Cause you don't know me (no you don't know me)  
I never knew the art of making love  
No my heart aches with love for you  
Afraid and shy I let my chance go by  
The chance that you might love me too  
You give your hand to me  
And then you say goodbye  
I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy  
Oh you will never know  
The one who loves you so  
Well you don't know me_

  


—Two days later—  


It was Molly’s last day at Holsworthy. Tomorrow morning Sherlock would drive her to the train station and she would return to her London life, to work and to Greg. An awkward reticence drifted in the air between them like the greying mist which laid upon the lawn in the chill, pre-dawn hours. Each stayed silent, not wishing to speak about the bittersweet, shimmering blanket that had descended upon them both under the shadow of her departure.

It was early afternoon and Sarah had just finished the party planning she’d been doing for tonight — a celebration to welcome Robert home as well as to bid farewell to a new, dear friend: their Molly. Also, Sherlock’s parents were due in a few hours, stopping on their way to Cornwall. They’d delayed their trip a day so they could see Robert and thus would only be spending one night instead of the two they had originally planned. It was going to be a big evening, the likes of which had been unseen for months, and the household was filled with excitement. Even Tanya was singing merrily as she moved about redoing the flower arrangements.

Currently Molly, Sherlock, and Sarah were in the library playing three handed whist. Sarah was telling Molly she’d arrange for Jerome to pack up the lace pillow, stand, and all of Molly’s lacemaking supplies as well as the four couture dresses and have them couriered to Molly’s home, in thanks for all she’d done for her family over the last ten days when Scott came barreling in, flushed and excited. “Grandfather is home from hospital!” he shouted, happily. A few moments later Robert and Anne came into the room, arm in arm, smiling.

“Wow!” Sarah exclaimed. “Daddy, you look wonderful!”

Robert, sans cane, grinned and did a jaunty little soft shoe shuffle. “I do, don’t I?” he said, good-humouredly. His colour was excellent, the palsy was gone, and he looked hydrated, rested and healthy; he was practically glowing.

Molly stood up and drew a breath, amazed at his transformation. She felt her heart begin to fill up in some strange way that almost hurt. Robert, looking for her in particular, immediately came over to her and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Thank you for my life,” he whispered in her ear before putting his arms around her and hugging her firmly.

She burst into confused tears. “Forgive me,” she finally managed, unable to control herself, to stop the tidal wave of sentiment breaking over her. “It’s just…I…imagine this is what it might have felt like if I’d been able to save my own father.”

“Oh, my dear,” Robert replied, drawing back to gaze kindly at her. “I know. I know. But I’m your father now, aren’t I?”

She nodded, the tears flowing harder at this realization. “Yes…yes, you are. I’m sorry,” she gulped, embarrassed at her display of emotions and fanning herself with her hand. “I’m sorry.” She fled out the door, overwhelmed.

Sherlock immediately got up and followed her. He found her just outside the library, her shoulder against the wall, her hand over her mouth, the tears streaming. “Oh, baby,” he said gently, leaning his back to the wall and standing next to her in solidarity. He reached for her free hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “You’re so pure. Let’s go for a walk and you can tell me all about your other father. The one I never had the chance to meet; I’d like to know more about him.” She nodded gratefully and let him lead her outside into the sunshine.

An hour later Anne wandered into the library, almost floating, as was her way of moving about the house. Her daughter was alone, seated on the sofa, her lace pillow on its stand in front of her but the bobbins were silent. She was staring blankly into space, a crease breaking across her forehead. “Hullo, mummy,” she said, looking up and gathering herself together. “Where’s father?”

“He’s having a rest,” Anne replied. “I know he looks much better, but he tires easily. Today was a big day for him and there’s still the party tonight. Plus, you know how he and Sig are, once they’re together. Up half the night talking and laughing about god knows what, so he needs to rest now, in advance. But I think in a week or so he’ll be back to normal.” Her eyes twinkled in anticipation. “Do you need any help with the preparations for tonight?” 

Sarah shook her head as Anne sat on the sofa next to her. “Not at all. Pretty simple, actually. All I did was talk to Cook. She’s taking care of everything. I only need to check the table. I asked her to serve the Penfold Grange Syrah with the lamb chops. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course. That’s perfect. Only the best or go without,” she smiled, and then examined her daughter more carefully. “Are you okay, my darling? You seem troubled.”

Sarah sighed and looked at her, tears sparkling in her brown eyes. “Not very well today, mummy. Will this ever get easier? I miss them so much. All this activity is making me remember I’ve lost half my family. I usually try not to think about it.”

“I expect it must get easier, dearest,” Anne replied, putting a comforting arm around her. “I don’t like seeing it consume you like this, but you can be sad for however long you need, whether it’s four months or four years. Grief has its own timeline and we must honor the river that flows around us, mustn’t we? It’s our tribute to those we’ve loved.”

“I know. But some days I feel so useless, so lonely,” Sarah confessed. “I just want to get better, instantly, and not have it take this long. And I hate sleeping in a cold bed.”

“But it’s not cold every night, is it?” Anne said, looking at her slyly.

“Mummy! What are you implying?” Sarah responded, blushing.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Anne was quick to say, smiling. “Just wondering if we should turn the heat up a bit or maybe get you another coverlet.”

“It’s not what you think! We’re not having sex,” Sarah said, a little hotly. “We don’t even kiss. Much. We just share a bed sometimes. It’s nice. It’s comforting to sleep in someone’s arms. He feels the same way. He’s been through a lot recently, too. Daddy told me about his sister. Besides, that’s hardly the point of this conversation.”

“Listen, dearest,” Anne interjected. “What you and he get up to in the middle of the night is none of my business but you don’t have to slink around and hide like criminals.”

“That’s for Scott,” Sarah explained. “I think it would only upset him and he’s too young to understand that we’re dear friends and a comfort to each other, nothing more. He’s likely to believe something worse, I think. That I’m betraying his father so soon after…” she trailed off.

“All right,” Anne replied. “Like I said, it’s none of my business. It’s okay to be a little mixed up, you know. This has been a tumultuous time.”

“I am not mixed up!” Sarah stated. “We’re just friends.”

“Okay, okay! Don’t get upset,” Anne soothed, giving her an understanding, patient look. “And I know you’re having frustrations with your progress. But you can walk a little bit now and soon it will be for longer. You’ll get there and one day before you know it, you’ll pick up the pieces of your life and weave together something new with those threads. Your heart and mind will heal alongside your body. Your soul knits all those aspects together so they all freshen as one. It’s already happening. Your aura is changing, becoming clearer every day, a little bit brighter. And maybe you’ll find someone new, eventually, someone to ride along beside you through this long life. No pressure, though, my dear. Scott is looking much better, too,” she added.

“Yes, thanks to Sherlock’s sweet attention, and to Molly, also, for discovering the truth about that bastard Harold,” Sarah said, “not to mention her encouragement of his interest in science and medicine. She spent nearly three hours with him the other day teaching him how to use that microscope and finding things for him to look at. And they went through all the curio cabinets, adding and fixing a number of labels, teaching him about taxonomy. She’s such a lovely person, isn’t she? Scott’s almost back to his old self. Young people recover quickly. I’m very grateful for that.”

“You do know the two of you can stay here for as long as you like,” Anne offered. “Holsworthy is your home, too. It always will be. I wouldn’t even mind if you decided to stay permanently. If pressed, I might even admit it’s what I hope for.”

Sarah looked at her and smiled. “Thank you, mummy. I’ll think about it. We’ll see how everyone feels when my aura has completely healed. What colour will it be then?” she wondered aloud as she picked up her bobbins and began to twist and cross her threads.

Anne looked over her shoulder towards the bank of windows, her attention drawn by shouting noises from the lawn. “Golden yellow, my darling,” she stated, leaning over and dropping a kiss on Sarah’s cheek. “Glorious and shining like the summer sun, as it has been ever since you were a baby in my arms.” She got up and wandered over to the windows, peering out. “What’s going on out there?”

“Sherlock and Molly are practicing her self defence skills,” Sarah replied.

“Ah, right,” Anne said. “I see.” She settled onto the window seat and began watching them, pulling a handful of almonds out of the pocket of her caftan and munching on them whilst she looked. “Okay, he’s got her in a bear hug from behind. Used her ponytail to grab her, pull her off balance and get his arms around her, pinning hers to her side. That’s bad. That’s the problem with ponytails and long hair with vulnerable women on the streets. I read that somewhere recently. She’s just kicked him in the knee to distract him and is getting her arms free, one and then the other, yes, and spinning around to face him. I must say that was a weak kick; she needs to use more force. I mean if this was an actual attack, of course. She could dislocate his kneecap that way and he’d go down hard. Now she’s shoved his chest, pushed him back with a straight arm strike. Don’t know if that’s a good idea, really, he could catch her arm, twist it behind her, grab her again from the back and take her down but maybe she’s setting up for a head butt. No, she’s going with an eye gouge and a chop to his neck with the side of her hand — very good! Right on the jugular. Go, Molly! I guess this is where her knowledge of anatomy comes in handy.” Anne pulled a freshly rolled blunt and a lighter out of her cuffed sleeve and lit up whilst she continued to narrate the action outside. “She needs to stomp on his instep. Actually, I think they sort of need to go a bit slower. They’re moving awfully quickly. Somebody’s going to get hurt.”

“Having fun?” Sarah laughed. “This is like listening to American wrestling. You know that clownish, make believe stuff? Eye gouging, hair pulling. Someone should toss a metal folding chair out there so they can whack each other with it.”

“Yes, this is great,” Anne said, settling in, getting comfortable. “This is better than Sunday evening telly,” she added, taking a deep pull off her joint. “I haven’t been this entertained in weeks. Okay, now they’re practicing kicks. He’s showing her how to do it. Yes, that’s right, Molly, bring the knee straight up first, and then pivot from the knee. Pivot, not a straight leg kick. Pivot! The angled leverage is quicker, more controlled, and gives you more force. Good. Here she goes, and— Oh my god he’s down! She got him right in the family jewels! He was supposed to get out of the way! He’s writhing around on the lawn. Jesus, she’s laughing, no wait, no she’s not. She’s on her knees, bent over, her hand on his back, helping him. Christ, that must hurt. Poor Sherlock! He’s going to feel that for days. No, wait, he’s getting up. He’s okay. He was faking. Sarah, he was faking!”

“One thing he certainly excels at,” Sarah muttered.

“He’s laughing and pointing at her,” Anne continued. “Ooo, god! Now she’s angry. She just smacked him! For real! She’s yelling at him. I can read her lips. She said ‘that’s not funny.’ Now he’s got his hands up, supplicating, trying to make amends but he’s grinning. He’s enjoying it. She’s going to take another shot at him, I can tell. No, wait, now she’s laughing, too. My god, she’s got quite the quick, fiery temper, hasn’t she? Kind of reminds me of you—“

Anne grew quiet for the next few minutes as she continued to observe them and then turned pale, her eyes widening, something clicking in her head. “Dear god,” she blurted out. “They’re in love! Sarah! Look at them! I know he thinks the world of her but I never imagined…and I was teasing her about it when she first got here, but they really are in love! Oh, my!”

“You noticed that, too?” Sarah replied, her voice flat.

“Oh,” Anne breathed, and then fell silent for a little bit, thinking. She got up and came back to sit beside her daughter again. She put her hand on Sarah’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Do you mind, my darling?”

“Yes,” Sarah snapped. “I know I shouldn’t but I kind of do.”

“But she’s with someone else!” Anne realized. “Do you think they don’t know they’re in love? They can’t both be that clueless, can they? I mean, how stupid can they be?”

“Of course it’s stupid,” Sarah said. “It’s Sherlock. He’s a _man_ and he’s got the densest skull on the planet.”

“I don’t know, I think there’s something else going on between them,” Anne mused, going over to the window again to watch them some more. “Otherwise they’d be together and she wouldn’t be dallying with that detective inspector in town. They either don’t know or one or both of them is fighting it. But why?” she wondered, her interest piqued. Molly now had Sherlock in a headlock and he was flailing about but not for long. He wrapped his arm around her waist and twisted to the side, using his greater weight and height to push her off balance. She fell onto her back on the grass with a grunt. He quickly threw himself on top of her, securing her to the ground with her wrists pinned on either side of her head and using his legs to stop her from kneeing him in the groin. Their lips mere centimeters away, they looked into each other’s eyes, panting. “Now kiss,” Anne whispered to herself. Sherlock scrambled up and helped Molly to her feet. Anne stamped her foot in frustration.

“Dammit, I missed a pin,” Sarah complained, examining the error made evident by the wonky hole in her lace. “Now I have to unlace this entire section. And it doesn’t matter, mummy,” she continued, with a toss of her hand. “About him and me. It’s too soon. I can’t get romantically involved with anyone right now, nor do I want to. I don’t have the heart for it. I have to think about what’s best for my recovery and Scott’s future. Those plans don’t currently include a man. Even him. And not that I’m much of a stickler for social norms but I do have some standing and it wouldn’t be proper.”

Anne came back to the sofa. “Do you still love him?” she asked. “Even after all these years?”

Sarah looked at her. “I’ve never stopped,” she replied, softly, and then her brow furrowed. “But I loved Addy, too. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“There’s no need to explain,” Anne soothed. “These things happen. You have a great deal of affection inside you, my darling, if you can love two men like that and be true to both. It’s a special gift you have.”

“You always think the best of people but I don’t know about that, mummy,” Sarah grumbled. “Sometimes I think I haven’t been true to either of them. I don’t think I deserved Addy.”

“Nonsense,” Anne remarked. “Utter nonsense. You’re feeling guilty because you lived. That’s perfectly normal. And everyone deserves someone. Or two.” She shrugged and held out her palm. “Almond?” Sarah shook her head.

Jerome came in to tell them the Holmes’ had arrived, were getting situated in their room, and would be down shortly just as Molly and Sherlock came in from outside, flushed and sweaty with a few leaves and blades of grass stuck in their hair and to their clothing. She had a big streak of dirt smeared across her temple. Sherlock began explaining to Anne the exact nature of the self defence moves they’d been doing out on the lawn.

Much to Molly’s chagrin a few minutes later Margaret and Sig Holmes came into the library. Turning red, she half turned towards Sherlock, muttering to him under her breath as she tried to brush the debris off her clothes and hair. “Christ, I’m so going to kill you. We look like we’ve been snogging in the barn.”

He threw up his hands. “How was I to know they’d arrive right at this precise moment?” he hissed.

Margaret came over to Sherlock and looked him up and down. “You’re a mess,” she stated. “What have you been up to now?”

“Snogging in the barn,” he replied mildly, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Hullo, mummy. Father,” he said, with a nod of his head. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Dr. Molly Hooper.”

“ _Friend_ ,” Anne mumbled sarcastically and then coughed, trying to cover her blunder by pretending she’d choked on an almond.

“It’s a pleasure,” Molly said, drawing herself up to her full height and extending her hand.

“So you’re the pathologist,” Margaret noted, taking the proffered hand and shaking it firmly. “Nice to finally meet you. Sherlock has so few friends, especially women, and he never brings them around.” She cast a withering, accusatory glance in her son’s direction before returning her fearsome gaze back to Molly. “You’re rather pretty, aren’t you? Oh, and there’s Sarah. How well you look, my dear! How are you getting on?” She went over to her and gave her a hug.

“Anyone need a drink?” Sherlock cut in, dryly, rolling his eyes. “You must be tired after your long drive. Father?” Sig nodded, gratefully.

“Erm…I’m going to get cleaned up,” Molly blurted out, moving as quickly as decorum allowed towards the exit. 

“You go, too,” Margaret instructed, waving her hand in Sherlock’s direction. “I won’t have you putting all that mud on Anne’s nice furniture and I want some alone time with her before you start with all your deducing. You may think it’s clever but no one cares what I had for breakfast.”

“Leaving the drinks prep to you, then, father,” Sherlock bowed and followed Molly out the door.

“Was your trip horrible?” Anne asked, coming over to link her arm with Margaret’s.

“Yes, fairly horrible,” Margaret replied. “Thirteen enormous roundabouts and you know how they upset me.” 

Anne made sympathetic noises and patted her friend’s hand as they made their way to the crimson drawing room. “A scotch on the rocks will fix you right up,” she declared with a smile.

Dinner was lovely. Tanya had decorated the room with oodles of flowers and balloons and the table looked especially nice, the polished silver gleaming in the candlelight next to the Royal Crown Derby. Wine, liquor, and witty, lively conversation flowed in copious amounts alongside the delicious country food — crusty bread with slatherings of creamy butter, silky potato mash, grilled lamb chops, and piles of crisp, fresh roasted asparagus from the market, filling them up in all sorts of helpful and healthful ways. 

Warmth and gratitude exuded from Anne, Sarah, and Scott for the return of Robert, for Molly’s cleverness, and for the company of kind, true friends. A great many toasts were offered to Molly which made her blush and squirm uncomfortably in her chair, unable to weather the attention. After two hours of laughter and relaxed feasting the port went around the table a goodly number of times as people nibbled and lingered, filling up the cracks — a bit of sharp, crumbly Stilton, the meat of cracked walnuts, a few plump, sweet grapes, a last swig of the magnificent Syrah. Finally, leaning back in his chair, Robert stretched and patted his tummy. “Well, that was one for the ages,” he noted, nodding. “Well done, my dear. It’s good to be home.” He smiled around the table at his friends. “Anyone up for a bit of music?”

They moved into a nearby sitting room where Anne and Sherlock played for a while, the rest sprawling about on the overstuffed furniture, satisfied, sated and happily stupefied from the meal, enjoying the special, thankful magic of this particular evening. After a time when the music ended the party began to break up, people moving away to other parts of the house. Robert and Sig retired to his study for a nightcap, some chess, and a good chat; Anne and Margaret left for a cozy nook where they could gossip and talk about their children’s futures; and Sarah and Scott went off to bed, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone on the sofa.

Giving her a smile he got up, cranked the old Victoria, and put on Edith Piaf singing “La Vie En Rose.” Extending his hand to her, she rose and slipped into his arms. They danced together, her arms sliding around his neck, him singing the lyrics in her ear in French as they moved across the floor together.

_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens  
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche  
Voilà le portrait sans retouches  
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens  
Quand il me prend dans ses bras  
Il me parle tout bas  
Je vois la vie en rose_

He dipped her, slowly and gracefully, as the notes swelled along with her heart. “You’re my angel, Molly,” he whispered, as he began to nuzzle her neck.

She thought her heart might shatter. It was all so touching, so beautiful and romantic, and therefore it was with a great deal of sadness she knew she would have to break his heart right now or she could never go back. She pulled away from him. “No more, my darling,” she said, shaking her head. “The holiday is over.” They stopped and he looked into her eyes, his love, his longing, and his need shimmering there for her to see. “Greg moved in with me a few days after you left,” she explained, softly stroking his cheek.

“Ah,” he replied, stepping away from her arms, dropping his head, not able to look her in the eye. “You have a spine of steel and a heart to match, don’t you?” he said, bitterly. He took a breath and there was a long pause before he continued. “You’re never going to love me again, are you, Molly?”

She shook her head and bit her lip. “No,” she said. “I’m not. I can’t.”

The next morning after his parents had left, he dropped her off at the station. They rode in silence. He carried her bags onto the platform and placed them at her feet. “Thank you for everything. It was a lovely holiday,” she told him, gazing into his impossibly kind eyes. “Be well, Sherlock. Be happy,” she offered as she gently kissed the corner of his mouth before boarding the train.

He walked away, back to the Morgan, but if he had turned around he would have seen something that might have given him hope. She was looking out the train window at him, an expression of sadness and deep regret crossing her features. Sitting in the car, he took a shaky breath and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel for a long time. He started the car and headed back to Holsworthy, to his ragged, uncertain future. Entering the house, he went silently up to his room and didn’t come out for 24 hours.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English translation of La Vie En Rose (A Life in Pink):
> 
> Hold me close and hold me fast  
> The magic spell you cast  
> This is la vie en rose  
> When you kiss me, Heaven sighs  
> And though I close my eyes  
> I see la vie en rose  
> When you press me to your heart  
> I'm in a world apart  
> A world where roses bloom  
> And when you speak  
> Angels sing from above  
> Every day words  
> Seem to turn into love songs  
> Give your heart and soul to me  
> And life will always be  
> La vie en rose  
> I thought that love was just a word  
> They sang about in songs I heard  
> It took your kisses to reveal  
> That I was wrong, and love is real  
> Hold me close and hold me fast  
> The magic spell you cast  
> This is la vie en rose  
> When you kiss me, heaven sighs  
> And…


End file.
